His extreme infirmity and long
      continued ill health had obtained him the privilege of remaining
      unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—one very similar
      to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman’s
      cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at
      the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the
      driver, who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry,
      who were drunk. As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the
      vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity. Leaping up immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an
      alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,
      aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of
      the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart
      of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,
      they were of the opinion that the rascal (meaning W——) was after
      making his escape, (so they expressed themselves), and, having
      communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram,
      and then knocked me down with the butt-ends of their muskets. It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of
      course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my
      inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half
      stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the
      sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose
      about my neck. The drop fell. I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although
      here, undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic
      upon which nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon
      such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author
      should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
      composed a treatise upon getting drunk. I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but
      I had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my
      left ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that
      I should have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the
      jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely
      proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman
      in the coach. For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the
      worth of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be
      extraordinary. My spasms it would have been difficult to beat. The populace encored. Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude
      of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself
      of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot,
      his admirable painting of the “Marsyas flayed alive.”

      When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper
      to remove my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as
      the real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized,
      a fact which I was so unlucky as not to know. Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no
      one made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be
      interred in a public vault. Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed,
      and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s “Malcontent”—

      Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—

      struck me at that moment as a palpable lie. I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out. The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled
      with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous
      coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one,
      and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about
      the mortality within. “This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated,
      and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word,
      an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not
      to walk but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human
      being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a
      rhinoceros. “His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his
      circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step
      forward, it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right,
      and three toward the left. His studies have been confined to the
      poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a
      pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract
      conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has
      never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat
      has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the
      days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and
      suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa. He
      was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath. He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was
      the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He
      patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died miserably in
      attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a
      deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize. “But here,”—said I—“here”—and I dragged spitefully from its
      receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose
      remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome
      familiarity—“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly
      commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct
      view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its
      nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon the
      ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued
      my soliloquy. “Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed
      would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had
      his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the
      originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy
      poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalized
      him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of
      “South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied
      pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon
      the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who
      walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and
      Allbreath were his favorite writers,—his favorite artist, Phiz. He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur,
      like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus.