his omnipotent Judge! Was there no escape? None! The court had denied him all hopes upon earth, and what had he beyond? What but a prospect too black even for the imagination of despair! Nothing can be imaged to the mind so fearful, as the reflections of a man about to be launched upon the illimitable ocean of eternity, with such a burden of unexpiated sins upon his soul, as a forced penitence cannot remove; and standing upon the very verge of his awful destiny, looking through the miroscopic perspective of his imagination into a near prospect of undefinable horrors. We have seen, indeed, instances of criminals who have met their doom with that stern obduracy of spirit which has enabled them to smile at the dreadful array of death, and curse the very Omnipotent before whose august presence they were about to appear. Shall we imagine, however, that because the tongue blasphemed, and the countenance could assume a smile, when the shaft of death was on the wing, the heart was at peace? No! Whatever may be the influence of a daring resolution upon the body, it cannot stifle the tortures of the spirit. The latter may be agonised, and writhe under pangs too frightful for contemplation, when the former seems not to suffer. With Clifford, however, the keen scourge of remorse had visited both with its terrible inflictions. He could look nowhere for comfort, nowhere for peace. He now, indeed, clung to the consolations of religion; but they offered no consolation to him. He was to die, not the death of the righteous man, but of the condemned—the degraded criminal. He was to perish, not in hope, but in abandonment; not a repentant prodigal, but a rejected rebel. How willingly would he now make reparation to the injured Esther for the wrongs he had heaped upon her, but it was too late. Alas! that he could recal the past; how different should be the tenor of his future life. This conclusion was wrung from him by his terrors; but past recollections, in spite of his now bitter contrition, poured through his bosom a tide of the most agonising emotions. Now the stings of conscience were felt, tipped with all their poisons. Remorse let loose her scorpions within him, which clung to and preyed upon his lacerated heart. The veriest wretch in the dark dungeon of the inquisition, groaning under his lately inflicted tortures, and anticipating the future rack, was a happy being, compared to him who had no better prospect than the endurance of sufferings that must be for ever, and shall be as great as they are illimitable.

The morning appointed for the execution at length dawned, but Clifford's preparation for another world was no further advanced, than when he had received the warning that his term of life was fixed. He had been too much engrossed by his terrors to allow him sufficiently to abstract his mind from the awfulness of his situation, and to repose his hopes upon that divine mercy, which is denied to none who seek it with a right disposition of soul, even in the hour of their extremity. He could not seek it. He could not crush the worm within, and he already seemed to feel that it would never die. It had a fearful vitality which worked upon every fibre of his frame, and reached even the impassive spirit. His hopelessness increased as the awful period drew nigh which was to terminate his earthly pilgrimage. He nad no resource in reflection. His bosom was a volcano, which the lava of burning thought violently overflowed, streaming its scorching fires through every avenue of perception, and giving him, while yet upon the threshold of eternity, a terrible foretaste of hell.

Upon the fatal morning when his sentence was to be fulfilled, he rose from a feverish sleep, and threw himself upon his knees in agony. He could not pray. He had committed no prayer to memory, and his mind was in too wild a state of conflict with his terrors to enable him to frame one. He supplicated his God to have mercy upon him; but this was all the prayer he could offer up. The bell at length tolled the hour, when he was, according to the

terms of his sentence, to be taken from his cell to the place of execution, there to expiate his crime by the forfeiture of his life. He was conducted to the press-room. His legs scarcely supported him; and he was obliged to avail himself of the assistance of one of the turnkeys, or he would have fallen. He seated himself upon a low bench, in a state bordering upon absolute stupefaction, whilst his irons were knocked off and his hands bound, preparatory to his execution. He could scarcely articulate intelligibly in consequence of the excited state of his mind. While the preparations for the last eventful scene of his life were in progress, Clifford, whose eyes had been closed in a paroxysm of mental excitation, heard his name pronounced in a low but distinct tone, and, suddenly looking up, beheld the wretch Esther beside him. She had undergone a considerable change in her appearance within the last three days. She now looked pale and haggard. There was a dark crimson spot on each cheek, but every other part of her countenance was colourless. The clear whiteness of her skin had assumed the sickly hue of disease: it was dull and sallow. The lustre of her eye, though still bright, had considerably faded; yet there was in it at intervals that same stern expression of resolved purpose which she had so frequently exhibited during the late trial, and which renewed in the bosom of the terrified criminal feelings little likely to soothe the desperate agonies of his heart. She approached him firmly. He shrunk from her, as he would have shrunk from a herald of the pestilence. "Clifford," said she at length, "my prophecy is about to be accomplished -- the day of retribution is arrived. You are about to go where the prisoners rest together, and hear not the voice of the oppressor.' Let us part in peace." Clifford gasped-he spoke not, but turned from her with a convulsive shudder. A tear gathered into her eye, and rolled silently down her cheek she however dashed it aside, and in an instant regained her self-possession. "I pity thee," she resumed, "but there are crimes of which it were criminal even to seek to remit the penalty. I confess, too, that it is a dear, though painful satisfaction to me, to witness the author of my everlasting shame, the victim of his own misdeeds; and if, at this moment I could pluck thee from the scaffold, still would I withhold from thee the arm of succour. Thou deservest to die. A thousand lives were all too little to atone for the

wrongs which thou hast done me. Make thy peace with heaven, for the fearful day of audit is at hand—may God forgive thee!"

The procession was now ordered to move towards the drop, and Esther was in consequence obliged to quit the prison. She left the press-room, made her way through the crowd which had collected outside the walls, and placed herself almost immediately under the drop, whence she could obtain a perfect view of the execution, as if she anticipated a horrible satisfaction in witnessing the dying struggles of that man who had rendered her condition in this world one of unmitigated misery; and, perhaps, prepared for her one still more miserable in a world eternal. The vehement exacerbations with which she was struggling, were but too visible to those around her; their attention, however, was soon called to those more arresting objects which they had assembled to behold. Her breath came from her lungs in quick spasmodic gaspings, while the blood was forced into her very forehead by the violence of the conflict within her; yet she uttered not a cry. Resolve was still written legibly in every lineament of her quivering coun tenance She made a desperate effort to be composed, and in part succeeded. A slight tremor of the lip, and a faint, hurried catching of the breath, less audible than a lover's whisper, were the only indications of those active fermentations of emotion which were busy within her bosom. The prisoner was now brought out, and appeared upon the drop, but so completely was he overcome, that he was obliged to be carried up the ladder to the platform. He was supported while the executioner adjusted the cord, looking rather

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ike a thing snatched from the grave, and into which the spark of animation nad been just struck, than a creature in which that spark was about to be extinguished, and which the grave was ready to enclose. The foam oozed from the corners of his mouth, while the thin tear forced its way through the closed lids, fearfully denoting the horrors which were darting their thousand stings into his affrighted soul. There was a death-like stillness among the crowd. Not a sound was heard, save the occasional sigh of sympathy or the sob of pity, whilst the awful preparations were making previous to withdrawing the fatal bolt. All this while, Esther kept her eye fixed, with anxious earnesness, upon the platform. The preparations were at length completed, and the cap drawn over the eyes of the criminal. Expectation had become so painfully intense among the crowd, that their very breathings were audible. The bolt was now about to be withdrawn, when a voice was heard from among the assembled multitude-"He is innocent — I am forsworn!" Every eye was directed towards the spot. The speaker had fallen to the earth it was Esther. She was lifted up, but no sign of animation appeared in her now ghastly features. She was instantly taken to a neighbouring surgeon, but no blood followed the lancet - she was dead. The sheriff happened to be on the spot, and immediately ordered the execution to be suspended, until more tangible evidence should be obtained. In the pocket of the unhappy girl, whom Clifford had so cruelly abandoned, was found a written confession which confirmed, in every particular, what he had declared upon his trial. He was immediately respited, and eventually released; yet the blight of infamy was upon him. He was given back, indeed, to existence, but his peace of mind was gone. His life was inglorious, still not without fruit. It was a sombre and a chequered scene. He had been stunned by the shock, to which he had so nearly fallen a victim. He had reaped the bitter harvest of seduction. All his bright prospects had been blasted; he resolved, therefore, that the rest of his days should be spent in making atonement for the past, and preparing for that future which is eternal. He lived an outcast, but died a penitent.

THOMAS HARTLAND THE SMUGGLER.*

[From "The English Annual," for 1835.]

Ar the extremity of a lonely valley, overlooking the ever-changing ocean, stood Combe Court, one of those picturesque structures which the antiquary would refer to the period when the castle gave place to the castellated mansion. Combe Court, however, in point of extent, could not properly lay claim to so imposing a title as the latter. Its design had originally been quadrangular, and a considerable portion of the building consisted of a rude tower, which bore the marks of having once been strongly fortified. But the old place seemed to have fallen on evil days, and their was an air of neglect and dilapidation about it, which told of coincident decay in the fortunes of its possessors. Its occupant, who was locally

*Lord Byron's remark, that "truth is stranger than fiction," is becoming a truism. The leading passages in this little narrative form part of the romantic history of a celebrated smuggler, nearly a century ago, respecting whom many traditions have been current on our western coast. Some portions of the story have neccessarily been altered, and a similar liberty has been taken with the name of the principal actor, but the locale is unchanged.

known by the name of "Squire Hartland," was an individual who had moved in the higher ranks of society, and whose family had in the olden time held no unimportant position in the district with which it had for centuries been identified. But their fortunes had been shattered during the troublous times of the civil war; and the patrimony which the subject of this story came into possession of was reduced almost to a shadow by an event as disastrous as it was unforeseen. Hartland smiled on the pursuits of an extensive smuggler, and permitted him to lodge a valuable cargo in his dwelling; the matter got wind, and he was exchequered in an immense sun. The blow was overwhelming, and Hartland, who had for several years represented the venerable little borough of in Parliament, withdrew wholly from society, and confined himself to the solitude of Combe Court, which, with one small farm, was all that he could now call his own. His hatred to the government had become deep and indelible, and he soon renewed his acquaintance with his old friends the smugglers. Hartland had been united in early youth to a woman whose gentle and feminine spirit was ill adapted for the stormy life which awaited her; and he had an only son, named Walter, who, almost from his infancy, displayed so decided a partiality for salt water, that his father-little foreseeing the events which were to take place-consented to his entering the naval service when he was scarcely twelve years old.

The wild life and hazardous pursuits of the followers of the "free trade," had many charms for a man of the bold and restless temperament of Hartland; and it was not long before it began to be rumoured that his fishing smack bore richer freights than herrings or mackarel:-still, owing probably to the extreme seclusion of the situation, and the great caution observed by his confederates, he had hitherto escaped the visits of the revenue officers. Shortly before the time when this story commences, Walter Hartland, to whom his father was passionately, attached, paid his birth-place a visit, after many years' absence. The youthful Lieutenant could not long remain at the "Court," without discovering that his father was deeply engaged in smuggling transactions. As an officer of his majesty's navy, he was thus placed in a delicate and difficult position; and he took an early opportunity of seriously remonstrating with his father on the great hazard and disgrace attendant upon such a calling; but the warning was unheeded. Mrs. Hartland then united in imploring her husband to abandon all connexion with the lawless men with whose fortunes he had become involved --but Hartland's mind was then intently fixed on the successful prosecution of a very extensive transaction in which he had embarked nearly all his gains,-visions of wealth again floated before his eyes, and the proffered counsel was spurned with anger. At length words arose between Walter and his father, and the latter in the heat of the moment uttered imprecations "not loud but deep" against his son, which ended in a parting as abrupt as it was melancholy. The die was cast. Thomas Hartland henceforth became a professed smuggler.

The occupation of a smuggler is looked upon with very different impressions by the inhabitants of the coast to those which are commonly associated with it by the dwellers in inland districts; and however demoralising and pernicious it may really be to those who pursue it, the followers of the "free trade" are, even at the present day, received outwardly with the same degree of notice as those who are engaged in the legitimate pursuits of commerce and industry. This fact was exemplified in the present instance; and those who had received the "Squire" after his misfortunes, with cold words and averted looks, now that rumours of his returning wealth began to prevail, would have sought his society with the same eagerneas as ever. Bit they overshot their mark with Hartland.

Shortly after Walter's departure, the expected cargo arrived, and was housed, for the first time since the fatal discovery which had formerly led to his ruin, in the cellars of Combe Court, prior to its transmission into the interior of the country. Extensive preparations had been made for this purpose the following evening, when Hartland and several of his leading partners in the undertaking, who were anxiously awaiting the hour fixed for the approach of their confederates, were suddenly alarmed by the receipt of a communication to the effect that the run had reached the ears of the revenue officers, and that a force was to be despatched that evening to effect the seizure of the goods. This intelligence fell like a thunderbolt upon the little party assembled at Combe Court. The most daring and experienced lost for the moment their presence of mind; and now it was that the singular boldness and decision of the character of their leader first shone clearly out. Although almost every shilling he possessed in the world was at stake, he appeared unusually cool and collected, and was "up and doing," whilst others thought. There was only one chance of saving the property, and that was by opposing force to force. Ruin started him in the face in the event of a seizure; and should the attempt at resistance prove successful, the machinery already in operation would secure the safety of the goods, and provide for his support in another land.

At that hour it was certainly a bold step. Before the plan of defence had been fixed upon, the assailants might perhaps be within the vicinity of the house. It yet wanted two hours for the time fixed for the arrival of the associates of the smugglers, and there was no time to send for aid, which under other circumstances might easily have been procured from a village devoted to their interests, further on the coast. The party at the Court consisted of only eight persons, excluding Mrs. Hartiand and a female servant, whose alarm may well be imagined.

It is as extraordinary as it is lamentable, how soon association with those with whom crime is familiar hardens the heart. Men shrink at first, but their better feelings rapidly become deadened, and, advancing step by step, at last they plunge into the abyss, and enter without fear or hesitation upon undertakings from which they would once have recoiled with horror. Such is but too often the case with those who, like the smuggler, make no scruple in evading the law; and Hartland, who had belonged to the highborn and the far-descended, now had become so far desperate in the pursuit of gain as deliberately to plan a scheme which must certainly be attended with the loss of human life.

The familiarity of the smugglers with scenes of peril and adventure, in some measure, made up for the smallness of their number; but it was the capabilities of the building for the purposes of defence, that they mainly relied on. The windows of the tower, which we have already spoken of, were placed at a considerable height from the ground, and intersected by massive stone mullions placed close together; and had the defenders been sufficiently numerous, the place might certainly have been held against a very superior force unsupported by artillery. But there was a short range of building connected with the tower, which was only partly covered by the loop-holes in the latter; the great object, therefore, now was to secure this part of the dwelling in such a way as to prevent a surprise at some particular point. The preparations for defence were soon completed; the furniture was piled in masses in defence of the doors and windows; and all the fire-arms and other defensive weapons were prepared and arranged for action, and placed for security within the walls of the tower.

The twilight was deepening into darkness, when a small party of nien marched cautiously, yet rapidly, along a narrow winding road, which led down the valley towards the abode of Hartland. They paused on reaching a point in the road at a short distance in the rear of the building, but