More than twenty years ago I saw two men executed, and the impression then made remains fresh to this day.  For this there were many reasons.  The deed for which the men suffered created an immense sensation.  They were hanged on the spot where the murder was committed—­on a rising ground, some four miles north-east of the city; and as an attempt at rescue was apprehended, there was a considerable display of military force on the occasion.  And when, in the dead silence of thousands, the criminals stood beneath the halters, an incident occurred, quite natural and slight in itself, but when taken in connection with the business then proceeding, so unutterably tragic, so overwhelming in its pathetic suggestion of contrast, that the feeling of it has never departed, and never will.  At the time, too, I speak of, I was very young; the world was like a die newly cut, whose every impression is fresh and vivid.

While the railway which connects two northern capitals was being built, two brothers from Ireland, named Doolan, were engaged upon it in the capacity of navvies.  For some fault or negligence, one of the brothers was dismissed by the overseer—­a Mr. Green—­of that particular portion of the line on which they were employed.  The dismissed brother went off in search of work, and the brother who remained—­Dennis was the Christian name of him—­brooded over this supposed wrong, and in his dull, twilighted brain revolved projects of vengeance.  He did not absolutely mean to take Green’s life, but he meant to thrash him within an inch of it.  Dennis, anxious to thrash Green, but not quite seeing his way to it, opened his mind one afternoon, when work was over, to his friends—­fellow-Irishmen and navvies—­Messrs. Redding and Hickie.  These took up Doolan’s wrong as their own, and that evening, by the dull light of a bothy fire, they held a rude parliament, discussing ways and means of revenge.  It was arranged that Green should be thrashed—­the amount of thrashing left an open question, to be decided, unhappily, when the blood was up and the cinder of rage blown into a flame.  Hickie’s spirit was found not to be a mounting one, and it was arranged that the active partners in the game should be Doolan and Redding.  Doolan, as the aggrieved party, was to strike the first blow, and Redding, as the aggrieved party’s particular friend, asked and obtained permission to strike the second.  The main conspirators, with a fine regard for the feelings of the weaker Hickie, allowed him to provide the weapons of assault,—­so that by some slight filament of aid he might connect himself with the good cause.  The unambitious Hickie at once applied himself to his duty.  He went out, and in due time returned with two sufficient iron pokers.  The weapons were examined, approved of, and carefully laid aside.  Doolan, Redding, and Hickie ate their suppers, and retired to their several couches to sleep, peacefully enough no doubt.  About the same time, too, Green, the English overseer, threw down his weary limbs, and entered on his last sleep—­little dreaming what the morning had in store for him.