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Covent-Garden, I waited for the conclusion of the play, in the Bedford Coffee-House. What a figure must I have been! Indeed, I overheard one gentleman say to a friend, that I looked as if I was out of my fenfes. Oli, low I wished for the play to be over! I had charged my pistols with the kindest letter the ever wrote me; a letter which made me the happiest of mortals, and which had ever since beea my talisman. At laft, arrived the end of the play, and the beginning of my tragedy. I met them in the stone passage, and had then got the pistol to my forehead, but she did not see me, (nor did any one, I suppose.) And the crowd separated us.
This accident I considered as the immediate intervention of Providence. I put up my pistol, turned about, and Mould (I most firmly believe) have gone out the other way, and have laid aside my horrid resolution, had I not looked round and seen Mr. M. (whom I immediately construed into the favoured lover defcribed by G.) offer her a hand, which I
thought was received with particular pleafure. The stream of my passions, which had been stopped, now overwhelmed me with redoubled violence. It hurried me after them. Jealousy suggested a new crime and nerved anew the arm of despair. I overtook them at the carriage, and and, at about the time I am now writing this, felt more than all the tortures of all the damned together.
What shall I not feel at the necessary re-cital of the tragedy, at my trial!
LET TER LXI.
17. April, 79. : If the murderer of Miss - wishes : to live, the man he has most injured will use all his interest to procure his life.
grateful to thy goodness, to be thought unworthy thy presence, to be driven from the light of thy countenance.
Well thou knowest I could not brook the thoughts of wanting gratitude to things beneath me in the creation ; ito a dog, a horse: almost to things inanimate; a tree, a book. And thinkest thou that I could bear the charge of want of gratitude to thee!
And, might-O might I resign the joys of the other world, which neither, eye can see, nor tongue can speak, nor imagination dream, for an eternal existence of love and bliss with her, whom
Presumptuous murderer! The bliss you alk were paradife.-
My father, who art in heaven, I bow before thy mercy ; and patiently abide iny sentence.
after my death, my dear friend, are not letters. Nor know I what to call them. They will exhibit, however, the picture of a heart which has ever been your's more than any other man's.'
How have I seen the poor soul affected at that recitative of Iphis in her favourite Jephtha !
“ Ye sacred priests, whose hands ne'er yet were
To think that I should be her priest, her murderer! In one of her letters she tells me, I recollect, that she could die with pleasure by my hand, She is sure she could. Poor soul! Little did she think
It is odd, but I know for a certainty that this recitative and the air which follows it, Farewel, &c.” were the last words she ever sung. Now I must say, and may fay, experimentally
“Farewell, thou busy world, where reign
may not add
Love! gracious God, this word in this place, at this time!
Newgate, Sunday, 18 April, 79.
4 in the morning. O, Charles, Charlestorments, tortures! Hell, and worse than hell !
When I had finished my last scrap of paper, I thought I felt myself composed, resigned. Indeed, I was fol am so now.
I threw my wearied bodywearied, Heaven knows, more than any labourer's, with the workings of my mind-upon the floor of my dungeon.
Sleep came uncalled, but only came to make me more completely cursed.
This world was past, the next was come; but, after that, no other world. All was revealed to me. My eternal fentence of mental misery (from which there was no Alight) of banishment from the presence of iny. father, of more than poetry e'er feigned or weakness feared, was past, irrevocably pait.
Her verdia too of punishment was pronounced, Yes, Charles-he, she was punished-and by whose means punished?
Even in her angel mind were failings, which it is not wonderful I never saw, fince Omniscience, it feemed, could hardly difcern them. O, Charles, these foibles, so few, so undiscernible, were still, I thought in my dream, to be expiated. For my