I had my share of this infernal plunder; but so ravenous had been my appetite for revenge, that not one pang of remorse disturbed the riotous enjoyments in which it was lavished.  On the contrary, the very consciousness that it was my uncle’s money I squandered, gave a zest to every excess, and seemed to appease the gnawing passions which had so long tormented me.  In two or three years, however, boundless extravagance, and the gaming-table, stripped me of my last shilling.  It was in one of the frenzied moments of this profligate reverse of fortune, that I committed the crime for which, if to-morrow dawned upon me, I should be publicly arraigned.

Fitzroy had been fortunate the whole night.  I had thrown with constant 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.

There is little doubt that scarcely a moment intervened between his writing his name, and placing the pistol to his heart; for when he was discovered, the pen was lying on the paper, as if it had been laid down only for an instant.

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RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS.