And are there not crimes as bad as mine? It is little

my intention to argue away the badness of my crime-but there furely are, and worse.

Let that gallant, gay, young gentleman yonder hold up his hand. Yes, fir-you I first arraign. Not for breach of friendship, not for falfe oaths to credulous virgins, not for innocence betrayedthefe are no longer crimes; these are the accomplishments of our age. Sir, you are indicted for flow and deliberate murder.-Put not on that confident air, that arrogant smile of contempt and defiance. Demand not with a fneer to have the witneffes produced who were prefent when you ftruck the ftroke of death. Call not aloud for the bloodftained dagger, the dry-drawn bowl, the brainsplashed piftol. Are thefe the only inftruments of death? You know they are not. Murder is never

at a lofs for

weapons.

Sir, produce your wife.

See, fee!- what

indignation flashes in his eyes! A murderer, and the murderer of his wife! May the calumniator-! -Sir, no imprecations, no oaths; thofe are what betrayed that wife. You did not plant a dagger in her breaft; but you planted there grief, disease, death. She, fir, who gave you all, was deftroyed, was murdered by your ill ufage. And not fuddenly, not without giving her time to know what was to happen. She faw the lingering ftroke, fhe perceived the impoffibility to avoid it; he felt it tenfold from the hands of a much-loved husband.

Were thefe fcraps of paper to be seen by any other eye than your's, common people would wonder that, in proportion as the moment drew nearer,

got further and further from myself. It may be contrary to the rules of criticks, but fo it is-To think, or to write about myself, is death, is hell. My feelings will not fuffer me to date thefe different papers any more.

Let me pay a small tribute of praife-How often have you and I complained of familiarity's blunting the edge of every fenfe on which she lays her hand? At her bidding, beauty fades even in the eyes of love; and the fon of pity fmiles at forrow's bleeding breaft. In her prefence, who is he that still continues to behold the scene of delight, or that ftill hears the voice of mourning? What then is the praife of that gaoler, who in the midft of mifery, and crimes, and death, fets familiarity at defiance, and ftill preferves the feelings of a man? The author of the life of Savage gives celebrity to the Bristol gaoler, by whose humanity the latter part of that ftrange man's life was rendered more comfortable. Shall no one give celebrity to the prefent keeper of Newgate? Mr. Akerman, marks every day of his existence, by more than one fuch deed as this.-Know, ye rich and power

ful,

ful, ye who might fave hundreds of your fellowcreatures, from starving, by the fweepings of your tables-Know, that, among the various feelings of almost every wretch who quits Newgate for Tyburn, a concern neither laft nor leaft is that which he feels upon leaving the gaol of which this man is the keeper.

.

In a

But I can now no longer fly from, myself. few short hours the hand which is now writing to you, the hand which

I will not distress either you or myself. My life I owe to the laws of my country, and I will pay the debt. How I felt for poor Dodd! Well-you

I

fhall hear that I died like a man and a chriftian. cannot have a better trust than in the mercy of an all-just God. And, in your letters, when you fhall these unhappy deeds relate, tell of me as I am. I forget the paffage, 'tis in Othello.

ments of

You muft fuffer me to mention the tenderness and greatnefs of mind of my dear B. The last momy life cannot be better spent than in recording this complicated act of friendship and humanity. When we parted, a task too much for us both, he asked me if there was any thing for which I wished to live. Upon his preffing me, I acknowledged I was uneafy, very uneasy, left

Lord S. might withdraw an allowance of 50 pounds a year, which I knew he made to her father. "Then," faid B. fqueezing my hand, burfting into tears, and hurrying out of the room, I will "allow it him." The affectionate manner in which he spoke of my S. would have charmed you. God for ever bless and profper him! and my S. and you! and

(The note which follows was written with a pencil. All that was legible is here preserved, though the sense is incomplete.)

LETTER LXIV.

To the Same.

My dear Charles,

Farewell for ever in this world! I die a fincere chriftian and penitent, and every thing I hope that you can wish me. Would it prevent my example's having any bad effect if the world fhould know how I abhor my former ideas of fuicide, my crime,

her fame I charge you to be careful. My poor S. will

The

20 Auguft, 1779.

coach, which paffes through -to-morrow, will leave a large packet for you at the George. When your fervant goes to the poft, he may enquire for it. The contents are copies of fuch letters as explain the incredible tale of that poor friend of mine, whom you were kind enough to patronize while he remained in your profeffion, and to affift in promoting after he quitted it. Your's of the latter