A month between the sentence and the hanging. A month of endless visitors, endless letters. A Mrs. Russell came to clean his coat. A sculptor sketched him. In the anxious North, The anxious Dr. Howe most anxiously Denied all godly connection with the raid, And Gerrit Smith conveniently went mad For long enough to sponge his mind of all Memory of such an unsuccessful deed. Only the tough, swart-minded Higginson Kept a grim decency, would not deny. Pity the portly men, pity the pious, Pity the fool who lights the powder-mine, They need your counterfeit penny, they will live long.