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RICHARD M. JOHNSON.LITERARY.THE CONFESSION.BY /ORB CAlTt T.q.My furlough bad nearly expired; and, at I waa to leave the village the next morning to join my regiment, then on the point of being shipped off at Portsmouth, for India.several of my old companions spent the evening with me, in the Marquis of Granby.— They were joyous, hearty lads; but mirth bred thirst, and drinking begot contentionI was myself the soberest of the squad, and did what I could to appease their quarrels. The liquor, however, had more power than my persuasion, and at last it so exasperated some foolish difference about a song, between Oick Winiawand Jem Bradley, that they fell to fighting, and so the party broke up.Bradley was a handsome, bold, fine fellow, and 1 had more than once urged him to list in cur corps.—Soon after quitting the house, he joined me in my way home, and 1 spoke to him again about enlisting, but his blood was still hot—he would abide no reason—he could only swear of the revenge he would inflict upon Winlaw. This led to some remonstrance on toy part, for Bradley was to blame in the dispute, till, from less to more, we both grew fierce, and he struck me such a blow in the face, that my bayonet leapt into his heart.My passion was in the tame momentquenched. I mw him dead at my feet—Iheard footsteps approaching—I fled towards my father’s house—the door waa left unbolted for me—I crept softly, but in a flatter, to bed—but I could not sleep. I was stunned —a fearful consternation was upon me—a hurry was in my brain—my mind wak on fire. I could not believe that I had killed Bradley. I thought it was the night mare which had so poisoned my sleep. My tongue became as parched as charcoal: had I been choking with ashes, my throat could not have been filled with more horrible tbint. I breathed as if I were suffocatingith the dry dust into which the dead are changed.After a time, that fit of burning agony went off;—tears came into my eyes;—my nature was softened. I thought of Bradley when we were boys, and of the summer days we had spent together. I never owed him a grudge—his blow was occasioned by the liquor—a freer heart than his, mercy never opened; and I wept like a maiden.The day at last began to dawn. I had throwr. myself on the bed without undrea-•ing, and'I started up involuntarily, and moved hastily—I should rather say instinctively—towards the door. My father heard the stir, and inquired wherefore I was departing so early. I begged him not to be disturbed; my voice was troubled, and he spoke te me kindly and encouragingly, exhorting roe to eschew riotous companions. I could make no reply—indeed I heard no more—there was a blank between his blessing and the time when I found myself crossing the Common, near the place of execution.But through all that horror and frenzy, I felt not that I had committed a crime—the deed was the doing of a flash. I was conscious I could never in cold blood have harmed a hair of Bradley’s head. I considered myself unfortunate, but not guilty; and this fond persuasion so pacified my alarms, that, by the time 1 reached Portsmouth, I almost thought as lightly of what I bad done, as of the fate of the gallant French dragoon, whom I sabred at Salamanca.But ever and anon, during the course of our long voyage to India, sadder afterthoughts often came upon me. In those trances, I saw, as it were, our pleasant vil-lage green,all sparkling again with schoolboys at their pastimes; then I fancied them gathering into groups, and telling the atory cfthe murder; again, moving away towards the church yard, to look at the grave of poor Bradley. Still, however, I waa loth to believe myself a criminal; and so, from day to day, the time passed on, without any outward change revealing what was passing within, to the observance or suspicions of my comrades. When the regiment was sent against the Burmese, the bravery of the war, and the hardships of the adventures, so won me from reflection, that 1 began almost to forget the accident of that fatal night.One day, however, while i was waiting in an outer room of the Colonel’s quarters,I chanced to take up a London newspaper, and the first thing in it which caught my eye wa» an account of the trial and execution of Dick Winlaw, for the murder of Bradley —The dreadful story scorched my eyes.—I read it as if every word had been fire,—it was a wild and wonderful account of all. The farewell party at the Granby was described by the witnesses. I was spoken of by them with kindness and commendation; the quarrel between Bradley and Winlaw was described, as in a picture; and my attempt to restrain them was pointed out by the judge, in his charge to the jury, as a beautiful example of loving old com-nship.—Winlaw had been found nearpanionship. the body, and the presumptions of guiltwere so strong and manifold that the jury “ . Hewithout retiring, found him guilty, was executed on the Common, and his body hung in chains. Then it was, that 1 first felt I was indeed a murderer,—then it was that the molten sulpher of remorse was poured into my bosom, rushing, spreading, burning, and devouring; but it changed not the brouze with which hardship had marked my cheek, nor the steel to which danger had tempered my nerves.I obeyed the Colonel’s orders as unmovedif nothing bad happened. I did my duty with habitual precision;—my hand was steady, my limbs were firm; but my tongue was incapable of uttering a word. Mycomra ies as they came towards me, suddenly baited, and turned aside,—strangers looked at me, as if I bore the impress of sorce fearful thing.I was removed, as it were, out of myself—1 was in another state of being—I was in hell.Next morning we had a skirmish, in which I received this wound in the knee; and soon afterwards, with other invalids, 1 was ordered home, We were landed at Portsmouth, and I proceeded to my native village. Butin this 1 had no will nor choice: a chain was around me, which I could not resist, drawing me on. Often did 1 pause and turn, wishing to change my route; but Fate held me fast, and 1 was enchanted by the spell of many an old and dear recollection, to revisit those things which bad lost all their innocence and holmeas to meThe day bad been sultry, the sunset with a drowsy eye,and the evening air was moist, warm, and oppressive. It weighed heavily alike on my mind and body. I was crippled by my wound—the journey was longer than my strength could sustain much farther— still I resolved to persevere, for i longed to be again in my father’s house; and I fancied wtTe I once there, that the bumiog in my bosom would abate.During my absence in India, the new road across the Common had been opened.From the Msonick Record.The following testimony in favour of the Masonick Institution is fromthe pen of Mrs. Hale, and is taken from the last number of her excellent and highly popular periodical, 7Vie Ladies' Magazine. The readers of the Record have often been treated with the productionsof this gifted lady, and it now affords us much pleasure to present them with this plain and decided expression of her approbation to our order.“ Proceedings of the Anti-nasonick State Convention. Boston, published by John Marsh. A pamphlet has been sent us, bearing the above title, and containing the whole pith and substance of the motions, speeches and resolutions of the Anti-mason-ick State Convention recently assembled in this city. We were, on one account, right glad to receive tt. We have, In consequence, an opportunity, or an excuse, certainly, for expressing our deep obligations to the mem bersof the Grand Lodge and the Royal Arch order of the state of New-Hampsbire. It was to their encouragement and support we owed our first hope of success as a writer.— And were we now about to appeal, on oui own behalf, to the benevolence of any class of people, we should address the Freemasons Our opinion of the order, therefore, will be sufficiently understood—and yet we would not have it inferred that this opinion is influenced by selfish motives. It is because we believe that masonick societies have a tendency to promote among men the virtues of the heart, sincerity in friendship, confidence in promises, and good will and charity to each other, (the abduction of Morgan to the contrary notwithstanding,) that we approve them. It will not be expected that a lady would attempt to discuss at length, a subject which has of late, un happily for society, produced so much ex citement. We only wish to be understood as feeling for the institution of Masonry a high respect—the following lines from a poem, written seven years since, will explain all we need say in justification of our own sentiments, even with the most scrupulous Anti-mason. For the poetry, we would apologize, did we not hope our readers might in this instance be satisfied with truth in the sentiment—and there was small effort to adoru it with the graces of diction or imagery.“ But to the Mystic Band must still belong The hallowed tribute of my grateful song.Ye, whose souls swelled with sympathy sincere, When gathering round a brother’» early bier,And when his widowed wife and infants soed Could feel the “ luxury of doing good. [know O! may you. tlirough earth's changing fortunes, The peaee approving conscience ean bestow-i peaee a.. . ^ _____ ______May blessings, pure’as pity's tears refined, Rich as the treasures of the liberal mind,Serene as faith, as virtue lasting, rest.Upon each feeling heart and generous breast,That, bound in charity’* benignant laws,Ne’er waited for the critic's cold applause;But kindly cheered a muse unknown to fame,And gave to hope an energy—an aim,Though my loved country should approve my lay,And sorrows' night have yet a gleam of day, And fame bestow the meed that authors prize,You freely gave it when ’twa* needed most ’MISCELLANY.
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Kingston Upper Canada Herald
Kingston, Ontario, CA
Wed, Mar 24, 1830
Page 1
Full Page
Clipped by
University O.
ON, CA 28 May 2025
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