tion is so good, I might have lived twenty years
longer had I not been brought hither."

During the week which elapsed between the warrant for his being brought
down to the Tower, and his death, although, says a gentleman who
attended him to the scaffold, "he had a great share of memory and
understanding, and an awful idea of religion and a future state, I never
could observe, in his gesture or speech, the least symptom of fear, or
indeed any symptoms of uneasiness."[260] "I die," was his own
expression, "as a Christian, and a Highland chieftain should do,--that
is, not in my bed." Throughout the whole of that solemn interval, the
certainty of his fate never dulled the remarkable vivacity of his
conversation, nor the gay courtesy of his manners. No man ever died less
consistently with his life. "It is impossible,"--such is the admission
of a writer who detests his crimes,--"not to admire the fearlessness
even of this monster in his last moments. But, in another view, it is
somewhat difficult to resist a laugh of scorn at his impudent project of
atoning for all the vices of a long and odious career, by going off with
a fine sentiment on his lips."[261]

On Thursday, the ninth of April, and the day appointed for his death,
Lord Lovat awoke about three in the morning, and then called for a glass
of wine and water, as was his custom. He took the greatest pains that
every outward arrangement should bear the marks of composure and
decency,--a care which may certainly incline one to fancy, that the
heroism of his last moments may have had effect, in part, for its aim,
and that, as Talleyrand said of Mirabeau, "he dramatized his death."
But, it must be remembered, that in those days, it was the custom and
the aim of the state prisoners to go to the scaffold gallantly; and thus
virtuous men and true penitents walked to their doom attired with the
precision of coxcombs. Lord Lovat, who had smoked his pipe merrily
during his imprisonment with those about him, and had heard the last
apprisal of his fate without emotion, was angry, when within a few hours
of death and judgment, that his wig was not so much powdered as usual.
"If he had had a suit of velvet embroidered, he would wear it," he said,
"on that occasion." He then conversed with his barber, whose father was
a Muggletonian, about the nature of the soul, adding with a smile, "I
hope to be in Heaven at one o'clock, or I should not be so merry now."
But, with all this loquaci