I have had my breakfast. It seemed a silly thing to do, but I ate it heartily. The Warden came with a quart of whiskey. I presented it to Murderers Row with my compliments. The Warden, poor man, is afraid, if I be not drunk, that I shall make a mess of the function and cast reflection on his management . . .
They have put on me the shirt without a collar. . .
It seems I am a very important man this day. Quite a lot of people are suddenly interested in me. . . .
The doctor has just gone. He has taken my pulse. I asked him to. It is normal. . . .
I write these random thoughts, and, a sheet at a time, they start on their secret way out beyond the walls. . . .
I am the calmest man in the prison. I am like a child about to start on a journey. I am eager to be gone, curious for the new places I shall see. This fear of the lesser death is ridiculous to one who has gone into the dark so often and lived again. . . .
The Warden with a quart of champagne. I have dispatched it down Murderers Row. Queer, isn"t it, that I am so considered this last day.
It must be that these men who are to kill me are themselves afraid of death. To quote Jake Oppenheimer: I, who am about to die, must seem to them something G.o.d-awful. . . .
Ed Morrell has just sent word in to me. They tell me he has paced up and down all night outside the prison wall. Being an ex-convict, they have red-taped him out of seeing me to say good-bye. Savages? I don"t know.
Possibly just children. I"ll wager most of them will be afraid to be alone in the dark to-night after stretching my neck.
But Ed Morrell"s message: "My hand is in yours, old pal. I know you"ll swing off game." . . .
The reporters have just left. I"ll see them next, and last time, from the scaffold, ere the hangman hides my face in the black cap. They will be looking curiously sick. Queer young fellows. Some show that they have been drinking. Two or three look sick with foreknowledge of what they have to witness. It seems easier to be hanged than to look on. . . .
My last lines. It seems I am delaying the procession. My cell is quite crowded with officials and dignitaries. They are all nervous. They want it over. Without a doubt, some of them have dinner engagements. I am really offending them by writing these few words. The priest has again preferred his request to be with me to the end. The poor man--why should I deny him that solace? I have consented, and he now appears quite cheerful. Such small things make some men happy! I could stop and laugh for a hearty five minutes, if they were not in such a hurry.
Here I close. I can only repeat myself. There is no death. Life is spirit, and spirit cannot die. Only the flesh dies and pa.s.ses, ever a- crawl with the chemic ferment that informs it, ever plastic, ever crystallizing, only to melt into the flux and to crystallize into fresh and diverse forms that are ephemeral and that melt back into the flux.
Spirit alone endures and continues to build upon itself through successive and endless incarnations as it works upward toward the light.
What shall I be when I live again? I wonder. I wonder. . . .
FOOTNOTES
{1} Since the execution of Professor Darrell Standing, at which time the ma.n.u.script of his memoirs came into our hands, we have written to Mr.
Hosea Salsburty, Curator of the Philadelphia Museum, and, in reply, have received confirmation of the existence of the oar and the pamphlet.--THE EDITOR.