Republican Herald

MISCELLANEOUS.

GASPAR RESSELING,
THE TRANSYLVANIAN ROBBER.

I never saw so lovely a morning. Every object was tinted with a clear yellow light: the thousand pinnacles and buttresses of the cathedral were sparkling with a peculiar lustre, and the partisans of the old fortress seemed to lose their harsh, grim outlines in most holy illumination. On the one hand, rose the ponderous masses of the ancient city, with here and there, the tower of a monastery or a church, rearing its battlements amidst the confusion of uncouth chimneys and fantastic smoke wreaths. On the other, the giant oaks were casting long streaks of shade over the yellow corn fields, and the winding river was seen at intervals, till it was lost in the dark masses of wood that skirted the distance. Oh! all was fragrant and refreshing; it was like that blessed morn when the voices of the angels proclaimed to St. Magdalene that the Lord had arisen from the sepulchre.

The bells were tolling dismally in their turrets, and I could hear the chant of the monks rising at times from the neighboring minster. Those bells were tolling to announce my execution—that chant was raised to speed my soul on its long, long journey!

But I was not allowed to enjoy this fair prospect in peace. They spoke, but I did not hear what they said; they pointed to the car that stood ready to drag me round the ramparts to the gibbet. I comprehended their meaning, and mechanically obeyed them. The priest took his pace beside me; and the executioner, masked and muffled, sat in the back part of the vehicle. The car rolled slowly along, when the bells chimed and tinkled in unison with the dead sound of the drums; and the song of the monks rose into a fuller diapason as we approached nearer and nearer. The father confessor prayed long and fervently: with streaming eyes and tremulous voice he implored me to give but one sign of repentance; he told me of heaven; he told me of hell; he reminded me of Him who had died by a more shameful death than mine, that I might be saved. In vain—his words fell upon my ear, but I sat in almost idiotic stupor. I bowed and crossed myself in imitation of his action, but I was gazing on the gilded towers, so fearfully contrasted with the ghastly implements of death and the solemn pageantry of the procession. Alas! heaven and earth were smiling in mockery of my sin and its punishment. The swallow twittered carelessly over our heads; the very dog snarled in derision and laid himself down to bask in the sunshine, in undisturbed felicity.

The priest guessed my thoughts; he foretold the time when the gigantic battlements should crumble into dust—when not one stone of the proud temple should remain upon another—when the sun himself should wax dim and be extinguished. But I—should remain eternal, immortal. How I was to exist depended upon this moment. Alas! conviction came too late.

We had now reached the termination of our fatal journey: we descended from our vehicle and advanced to the scaffold, which was erected upon the rampart and commanded an extensive view of the plain below. I looked down on the almost numberless multitude of heads. At my appearance they rose and fell like the waves of a troubled sea—they shrunk backward in loathing abhorrence, as if from some hideous reptile that was about to dart amongst them. I remembered many a face that I had known in better days. I looked steadily at them; they buzzed like a swarm of hornets—a smothered groan spread from man to man—they moved, nodded, grinned at me. Oh! as I hear, every lip in that vast multitude was curled in scorn—every eye was glaring with a horrible defiance! I now experienced that dreadful thirst which is said to indicate approaching death. Thirst can I call it? My very vitals were scorched and withered.—Water! water! Oh! what is the wealth of the Indies, compared with one cup of the pure, cool element! I retain a painfully distinct recollection of the whole scene—the executioner—the platform—the ladder—the gibbet, and the noosed halter—the solitary raven that had perched on the gallows—the despairing countenance of the confessor—and the pale livid faces of the spectators—that dark wildness of eyes, all concentrating on me!

Slowly and sullenly I allowed them to conduct me to the foot of the ladder. The executioner stripped me of the upper part of my clothing, bound my passive hands behind me, and clipped off my long curling hair, of which I was once so vain. Fool! fool! I was angry with him—even at that horrid moment, I was weak enough to be angry with him.

Slow and sullenly we reached the top of the ladder. I felt them fasten the fatal noose about my neck, which had so often been fondly encircled by the small slender finger of beauty! O God! I was horribly sick at that moment—

What followed I know not. I only remember unconsciously, giving the appointed signal, I fell some feet perpendicularly, and at the same time the executioner left upon my shoulders to tighten the noose with his additional weight. A flash of fire brighter than the glare of a thousand suns—danced before my eyes; my ears rang with a tumultuous mixture of sounds, in which my own gaspings for breath, the shuddering groans of the spectators, and the cry of the brooding bird that sat above me were joined with the roar of a thousand cataracts, and the harsh, harsh yelp of a thousand wolves. I writhed in my agony to free my arms from the cords that bound them, and my shoulders from the wretch that still clung to them. The lights danced, and flickered and multiplied; the sounds increased tenfold in loudness and discordance. I felt as if I were red hot; my blood boiled in my veins—my pulses throbbed and fluttered, and were still. I grew as cold as ice—darkness, and silence, and insensibility succeeded.

I started from the bed on which I lay. The apartment was large and gloomy, and instruments, whose uses I could not comprehend, were ranged in shelves along the walls. Am I in the region of the King of Terrors! was my first inquiry. Ah, no—for the good priest is seated beside the bed, in company with a venerable man, and pronounces his emphatic blessing—

The story was short and simple. The priest had obtained my body from the magistrates, under pretense of burying it privately: but with the intention of conveying it to the chamber of a friend—a learned alchemist—whose labors had been rewarded by the discovery of a powerful elixir. The panacea had been applied to me while I was yet warm, and succeeded in restoring me to life. Under the instructions of the good father, I had leisure to repent of my sins, and from his friend I learned the secrets of his art.

I have now attained an extreme old age; and I wander in safety through the streets of Wittenburg, in the midst of those who have heard their grandsires tell of the daring deeds of the noted Gaspar Ressel ing—the Transylvanian Robber.