THE NOVELIST.


THE CONFESSION OF SERVENTIUS.

_From the Latin of an ancient Paduan Manuscript._

_By Miss M.L. Beevor._

(_For the Mirror_.)


The hours of my weary existence are fast verging to a close: already have
the dreadful preparations commenced. Heavily falls the sound of the
midnight bell upon my shrinking ear; upon my withered, quailing heart, it
is _felt_ in every stroke like a thunder-bolt; and the rude, reckless
shout, heard, though far distant, as distinctly as the fearful throbbings
of that miserable heart, tells but too eloquently that the faggots have
reached their place of destination, and that the fearful pile is even now
erecting. Once I believed myself one of the most courageous of men; I have
beheld _death_ in many terrible shapes, and feared it in none; but, oh! to
burn,--to _burn!_ this is a thing from which the startled spirit recoils
in speechless horror, and vainly, vainly strives to wrench itself by
forceful thought from the shuddering, encumbering frame! Even now, do I
seem to behold the finger of scorn pointed at me;--ay,--at ME! whilst
bound to the firm stake with thongs, strong as the iron bands of death, I
cannot even writhe under the anguish of shame, wrath, and apprehended
bodily torture! The pile is lighted,--the last words of the reckless
priest have died upon mine ear, and his figure and countenance, with the
myriad forms and faces, of the insulting multitude around me, are lost in