We ourselves feel it, and it is not surprising; for, along this wild and rugged path of darkness, we are conducting the reader to the wake of a murderer.  We have now arrived within fifty yards of the house, which, however, we cannot see, for nothing but a solitary light is visible.  But, lo! a flash of lightning! and there for a moment is the whole rugged and savage scenery revealed.  The huge, pointed mountains, the dreary wastes, the wild, still glens, the naked hills of granite, and the tremendous piles of rocks, ready, one would think, to crash down from the positions where they seem to hang, if only assailed by a strong gale of wind—­these objects, we say, were fearful and startling in themselves; but the sensations which they produced were nothing in comparison with the sight of an unpainted deal coffin which stood near the door, against the side wall of the house.  The appearance of a coffin, but especially at night, is one that casts a deep shadow over the spirits, because it is associated with death, of which it is the melancholy and depressing exponent; but to look upon it by such an awful though transient light as that which proceeds from the angry fires of heaven, and to reflect upon the terrible associations of blood and crime which mingle themselves with that of a murderer, is a dreadful but wholesome homily to the heart.  We now enter the house of death, where the reader must suppose himself to be present, and shall go on to describe the scene which presents itself.

On entering, we found the house nearly crowded; but we could observe that there were very few of the young and light-hearted present, and scarcely any females, unless those who were related to the family of the deceased, or to himself.  The house was low and long, and the kitchen in which they had laid him out was spacious, but badly furnished.  Altogether its destitution was calculated to deepen the sense of awe which impressed those who had come to spend the night with the miserable widow and wailing orphans of the murderer.

The unfortunate man had been executed that morning after having acknowledged his crime, and, as the laws of that period with respect to the interment of the convicted dead were not so strict as they are at present, the body was restored to his friends, in order that they might bury it when and where they wished.  The crime of the unhappy man was deep, and so was that which occasioned it.  His daughter, a young and beautiful girl, had been seduced by a gentleman in the neighborhood who was unmarried; and that act of guilt and weakness on her part was the first act that ever brought shame upon the family.  All the terrible passions of the father’s heart leaped into action at the rain of his child, and the disgrace which it entailed upon his name.  The fury of domestic affection stimulated his heart, and blazed in his brain even to madness.  His daughter was obliged to fly with her infant and conceal herself from his vengeance, though the unhappy girl, until