WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH.

AINSWORTH, WILLIAM HARRISON, an English novelist; born at Manchester, February 4, 1805; died at Reigate, January 3, 1882. He was the son of a solicitor, and was designed for the legal profession, but while quite young embraced the profession of literature and acquired great notoriety as a writer of sensational novels founded mainly upon historical or semi-historical themes. He was for some time the editor of "Bentley's Miscellany," and about 1842 started "Ainsworth's Magazine," a periodical which he conducted for many years, and in which most of his writings originally appeared. Among the best-known of his tales, which gained a great though not a wholly reputable popularity, are: "Sir John Chiverton" (1825), which was praised by Sir Walter Scott; "Rookwood," "Crichton," "Jack Sheppard," "The Tower of London," "Old St. Paul's," "Windsor Castle," "St. James's Palace," "The Lancashire Witches," "The Star Chamber," "The Flitch of Bacon," "The Spanish Match," "John Law, the Projector," "Constable de Bourbon," "Old Court," "Merrie England," "Hilary St. Ives," "Myddleton Pomfret," and "The Leaguer of Latham," the last being issued in 1876; so that Mr. Ainsworth's career as a popular novelist extended over more than half a century, and the works of few of his contemporaries enjoyed so wide a popularity among the less cultivated class of readers.

THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREY.

(From "The Tower of London.")

MONDAY, the 12th of February, 1554, the fatal day destined to terminate Jane's earthly sufferings, at length arrived. Excepting a couple of hours which she allowed to rest, at the urgent entreaty of her companion, she had passed the whole of the night in prayer. Angela kept watch over the lovely sleeper, and the effect produced by the contemplation of her features during this her last slumber was never afterwards effaced. The repose of an infant could not be more calm and holy. A celestial smile irradiated her countenance; her lips moved as if in prayer; and if good angels are ever permitted to visit

the dreams of those they love on earth, they hovered that night over the couch of Jane. Thinking it cruelty to disturb her from such a blissful state, Angela let an hour pass beyond the appointed time. But observing a change come over her countenance seeing her bosom heave, and tears gather beneath her eyelashes, she touched her, and Jane instantly arose. "Is it four o'clock?" she inquired.

"It has just struck five, madam," replied Angela. "I have disobeyed you for the first and last time. But you seemed so happy, that I could not find in my heart to waken you."

"I was happy," replied Jane, "for I dreamed that all was over without pain to me and that my soul was borne to regions of celestial bliss by a troop of angels who had hovered above the scaffold."

"It will be so, madam," replied Angela, fervently. "You will quit this earth immediately for heaven, where you will rejoin your husband in everlasting happiness.

"I trust so," replied Jane, in an altered tone; "but in that blessed place I searched in vain for him. Angela, you let me sleep too long, or not long enough."

"Your pardon, dearest madam," cried the other fearfully.

"Nay, you have given me no offence," returned Jane, kindly. "What I meant was that I had not time to find my husband."

"Oh, you will find him, dearest madam," returned Angela, "doubt it not. Your prayers would wash out his offences, even if his own could not."

"I trust so," replied Jane. and do you pray, too."

"And I will now pray for him,

Jane then retired to the recess, and in the gloom, for it was yet dark, continued her devotions until the clock struck seven. She then arose, and assisted by Angela, attired herself with great care.

"I pay more attention to the decoration of my body now I am about to part with it," she observed, "than I would do if it was to serve me longer. So joyful is the occasion to me, that were I to consult my own feelings, I would put on my richest apparel, to indicate my contentment of heart. I will not, however, so brave my fate, but array myself in these weeds." And she put on a gown of black velvet, without ornament of any kind; tying round her slender throat (so soon, alas! to be severed) a simple white falling collar. Her hair was left pur

posely unbraided, and was confined by a caul of black velvet. As Angela performed those sad services she sobbed audibly.

"Nay, cheer thee, child," observed Jane. "When I was clothed in the robes of royalty, and had the crown placed upon my brow, nay, when arrayed on my wedding day, I felt not half so joyful as now.

"Ah! madam!" exclaimed Angela, in a paroxysm of grief, "my condition is more pitiable than yours. You go to certain happiness. But I lose you."

"Only for a while, dear Angela," returned Jane. "Comfort yourself with that thought. Let my fate be a warning to you. Be not dazzled by ambition. Had I not once yielded, I had never thus perished. Discharge your duty strictly to your eternal and your temporal rulers, and rest assured we shall meet again, never to part.

"Your counsel shall be graven on my heart, madam," returned Angela. "And oh! may my end be as happy as yours!"

"Heaven grant it!" ejaculated Jane, fervently. "And now," she added, as her toilette was ended, "I am ready to die." "Will you not take some refreshment, madam?" asked Angela.

"No," replied Jane. "I have done with the body!"

The morning was damp and dark. A thaw came on a little before daybreak, and a drizzling shower of rain fell. This was succeeded by a thick mist, and the whole of the fortress was for a while enveloped in vapor. It brought to Jane's mind the day on which she was taken to trial. But a moral gloom likewise overspread the fortress. Every one within it, save her few enemies (and they were few indeed), lamented Jane's approaching fate. Her youth, her innocence, her piety, touched the sternest breast, and moved the pity even of her persecutors. All felt that morning as if some dire calamity was at hand, and instead of looking forward to the execution as an exciting spectacle (for so such revolting exhibitions were then considered), they wished it over. Many a prayer was breathed for the speedy release of the sufferer- many a sigh heaved — many a groan uttered: and if ever soul was wafted to heaven by the fervent wishes of those on earth, Jane's was so.

It was late before there were any signs of stir and bustle. within the fortress. Even the soldiers gathered together reluctantly and those who conversed spoke in whispers. Dudley,

who it has been stated was imprisoned in the Beauchamp Tower, had passed the greater part of the night in devotion. But towards morning, he became restless and uneasy, and unable to compose himself, resorted to the customary employment of captives in such cases, and with a nail which he had found carved his wife's name in two places on the walls of his prison. These inscriptions still remain.

At nine o'clock the bell of the chapel began to toll, and an escort of halberdiers and arquebusiers drew up before the Beauchamp Tower, while Sir Thomas Brydges and Feckenham entered the chamber of the prisoner, who received them with an unmoved countenance.

"Before you set out upon a journey from which you will never return, my lord," said Feckenham, "I would ask you for the last time, if any change has taken place in your religious sentiments and whether you are yet alive to the welfare of your soul?"

"Why not promise me pardon if I will recant on the scaffold, and silence me as you silenced the duke my father, by the axe!" replied Dudley, sternly. "No, sir, I will have naught to do with your false and idolatrous creed. I shall die a firm believer in the gospel, and trust to be saved by it."

"Then perish, body and soul," replied Feckenham, harshly. "Sir Thomas Brydges, I commit him to your hands.'

"Am I to be allowed no parting with my wife?" demanded Dudley, anxiously.

"You have parted with her forever, - heretic and unbeliever!" rejoined Feckenham.

"That speech will haunt your deathbed, sir," retorted Dudley, sternly. And he turned to the lieutenant, and signified that he was ready.

The first object that met Dudley's gaze, as he issued from his prison, was the scaffold on the green. He looked at it for a moment wistfully.

"It is for Lady Jane," observed the lieutenant.

"I know it," replied Dudley, in a voice of intense emotion. "I thank you for letting me die first.

"You must thank the queen, my lord," returned Brydges. "It was her order."

"Shall you see my wife, sir?" demanded Dudley, anxiously. The lieutenant answered in the affirmative.

"Tell her I will be with her on the scaffold," said Dudley.

As he was about to set forward, a young man pushed through the lines of halberdiers, and threw himself at his feet. It was Cholmondeley. Dudley instantly raised and embraced him. "At least I see one whom I love," he cried.

"My lord, this interruption must not be," observed the lieutenant. "If you do not retire," he added, to Cholmondeley, "I shall place you in arrest."

"Farewell, my dear lord," cried the weeping esquire — "farewell!"

"Farewell forever!" returned Dudley, as Cholmondeley was forced back by the guard.

The escort then moved forward, and the lieutenant accompanied the prisoner to the gateway of the Middle Tower, where he delivered him to the sheriffs and their officers, who were waiting there for him with a Franciscan friar, and then returned to fulfil his more painful duty. A vast crowd was collected on Tower Hill, and the strongest commiseration was expressed for Dudley, as he was led to the scaffold, on which Mauger had already taken his station.

On quitting the Beauchamp Tower, Feckenham proceeded to Jane's prison. He found her on her knees, but she imme

diately arose.

"Is it time?" she asked.

“It is, madam, to repent," replied Feckenham, sternly. “A few minutes are all that now remain to you of life nay, at this moment, perhaps, your husband is called before his Eternal Judge. There is yet time. Do not perish like him in your sins."

"Heaven have mercy upon him!" cried Jane, falling on her knees.

And notwithstanding the importunities of the confessor, she continued in fervent prayer, till the appearance of Sir Thomas Brydges. She instantly understood why he came, and rising, prepared for departure. Almost blinded by tears, Angela rendered her the last services she required. This done, the lieutenant, who was likewise greatly affected, begged some slight remembrance of her.

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"I have nothing to give you but this book of prayers, sir," she answered "but you shall have that, when I have done with it, and may it profit you.”

"You will receive it only to cast it into the flames, my son," remarked Feckenham.