And then, in the midst of a grand and impressive silence, they will swing you into per--Paradise, my son.

There will not be a dry eye on the ground.

You will be a hero! Not a rough there but will envy you.

Not a rough there but will resolve to emulate you.

And next, a great procession will follow you to the tomb--will weep over your remains--the young ladies will sing again the hymns made dear by sweet associations connected with the jail, and, as a last tribute of affection, respect, and appreciation of your many sterling qualities, they will walk two and two around your bier, and strew wreaths of flowers on it.