t rake up these terrible reminiscences. Let us
hope that the _truly guilty_ are forgiven. And let us take consolation
from reflecting that this event led the great Romilly to enter on his
celebrated career as a reformer of the criminal law.

The remains of Esther Mason were obtained from the Newgate officials,
and quietly interred in St. Sepulchre's church-yard. A plain slab, with
her name only plainly chiselled upon it, was some time afterwards placed
above the grave. A few years ago I attended a funeral in the same
grave-yard; and after a slight search, discovered the spot. The
inscription, though of course much worn, was still quite legible.

I had not seen Henry Mason since his return; but I was glad to hear from
Mr. William Friend that, after the first passionate burst of rage and
grief had subsided, he had, apparently at least, thanks to the tender and
pious expostulations of his wife--with whom, by the kind intervention of
the sheriffs, he was permitted long and frequent interviews--settled down
into calmness and resignation. One thing only he would not bear to hear
even from her, and that was any admission that she had been guilty of,
even the slightest offence. A hint of the kind, however unintentional,
would throw him into a paroxysm of fury; and the subject was consequently
in his presence studiously avoided.

A few days after the execution, Mr. William Friend called on me just
after breakfast, accompanied by the bereaved husband. I never saw so
changed a man. All the warm kindliness of his nature had vanished, and
was replaced by a gloomy fierce austerity, altogether painful to
contemplate.

"Well, sir," said he, as he barely touched my proffered hand, "they have
killed her, you see, spite of all you could say or do. It much availed
me, too, that I had helped to win their boasted victories;" and he
laughed with savage bitterness.

"Henry--Henry!" exclaimed William Friend, in a reproving accent.

"Well, well, sir," rejoined Mason, impatiently, "you are a good man, and
have of course your own notions on these matters; I also have mine. Or,
perhaps, you think it is only the blood of the rich and great which, shed
unjustly, brings forth the iron harvest? Forgive me," he added, checking
himself. "I respect you both; but my heart is turned to stone. You do not
know--none ever knew but I--how kind, how loving, how gentle was that
poor long-suffering girl."

He turned from us to hide the terrible agony which