bad luck. He had pocketed some hundreds; I had lost more than I could
pay. I asked him for a temporary loan of fifty pounds, to make good what
I owed, and stake the small remaining sum for the chance of retrieving
all. He refused me. It was the first time he had ever done so. But he
not _only_ refused me, he taunted me with sarcastic reproofs for my
folly, and muttered something about the uselessness of assisting a man
who, if he had thousands, would scatter them like dust. He should have
chosen a fitter moment to exhort me, than when I was galled by my
losses, and by his denial of my request. I was heated with wine too; and
half mad with despair, half mad with drink, I sprang upon him, tore him
to the earth, and before the by-standers could interfere to separate us,
I had buried a knife, which I snatched from a table near me, up to the
handle in his heart! He screamed--convulsively grappled me by the
throat---and expired! His death-gripe was so fierce and powerful, that I
believe had we been alone, his murderer would have been found strangled
by his side. It was with difficulty that the horror-struck witnesses of
this bloody scene could force open his clenched hands time enough to let
me breathe.

I have done! I remember, as if it were but yesterday, the silent
response which my heart made, when my uncle pronounced that withering
sentence on me. "No!" was my indignant exclamation; "I may deserve a
hundred public deaths; but if I know myself, I would never undergo
one!--NOR WILL I." When that which I have written shall be read--other
hopes and fears--other punishments, perchance, than man can awaken or
inflict--will await me. My _first_ crime--my _first_ revenge,
and my _last_, I have recorded; my _last_ crime others must
tell, when they speak of the murderer and SUICIDE,

JAMES MORLEY.