gain strength with every successive stroke of untoward Fate, until it had become the ruling idea of his mind, in which there grew up the sort of desperate impatience with which we long for any end we know to be inevitable.  The waters of his life had been so mingled with gall, and the bitter draught so long pressed to his lips, that now he seemed only eager to drain at once the last dregs, and cast the hated cup from him forever,—­impatient to find peace and rest in the grave, even if it were the grave of a felon, and at the foot of the gallows.

Here let the curtain fall upon the sad closing scene.  We will only remark, in conclusion, that the name and family of this ill-fated victim of false and circumstantial evidence have long since disappeared from the land where they had known such disgrace; and but few persons are now living who can recall the foregoing details of the once celebrated “Wilde Tragedy.”

CRAWFORD’S STATUES AT RICHMOND.

  Long I owe a song, my Brother, to thy dear and deathless claim;
  Long I’ve paused before thy ashes, in my poverty and shame: 
  Something stirs me now from silence, with a fixed and awful breath;
  ’Tis the offspring of thy genius, that was parent to thy death.

  They were murderous, these statues; as they left thy teeming brain,
  Their hurry and their thronging rent the mother-mould in twain: 
  So the world that takes them sorrowful their beauties must deplore;
  From the portals whence they issued lovely things shall pass no more.

  With a ghostly presence wait they in a stern and dark remorse,
  As the marbles they are watching were sepulchral to thy corse;
  Nay, one draws his cloak about him, and the other standeth free
  With his patriot arms uplifted to the grasp of Liberty.

  Shall I speak to you, ye silent ones?  Your father lies at rest,
  With the mighty impulse folded, like a banner, to his breast;
  Ye are crowned with remembrance, and the glory of men’s eyes;
  But within that heart, low buried, some immortal virtue lies.

  When with heavy strain and pressure ye were lifted to your height,
  Then his passive weight was lowered to the vaults of sorrowing Night: 
  They who lifted struggled sorely, ere your robes on high might wave;
  They who lowered with a spasm laid such greatness in its grave.

  In the moonlight first I saw you,—­with the dawn I take my leave;
  Others come to gaze and wonder,—­not, like me, to pause and grieve: 
  Sure, whatever heart doth hasten here, of master or of slave,
  This aspect of true nobleness makes merciful and brave.

  But I know the spot they gave him, with the cool green earth above,
  Where I saw the torchlight glitter on the tears of widowed love,
  And we left his garlands fading;—­to redeem that moment’s pain,
  Would that ye were yet in chaos, and your master back again!