The day now drew nigh when our great man was to exemplify the last and noblest act of greatness by which any hero can signalise himself.  This was the day of execution, or consummation, or apotheosis (for it is called by different names), which was to give our hero an opportunity of facing death and damnation, without any fear in his heart, or, at least, without betraying any symptoms of it in his countenance.  A completion of greatness which is heartily to be wished to every great man; nothing being more worthy of lamentation than when Fortune, like a lazy poet, winds up her catastrophe aukwardly, and, bestowing too little care on her fifth act, dismisses the hero with a sneaking and private exit, who had in the former part of the drama performed such notable exploits as must promise to every good judge among the spectators a noble, public, and exalted end.

But she was resolved to commit no such error in this instance.  Our hero was too much and too deservedly her favourite to be neglected by her in his last moments; accordingly all efforts for a reprieve were vain, and the name of Wild stood at the head of those who were ordered for execution.

From the time he gave over all hopes of life, his conduct was truly great and admirable.  Instead of shewing any marks of dejection or contrition, he rather infused more confidence and assurance into his looks.  He spent most of his hours in drinking with his friends and with the good man above commemorated.  In one of these compotations, being asked whether he was afraid to die, he answered, “D—­n me, it is only a dance without music.”  Another time, when one expressed some sorrow for his misfortune, as he termed it, he said with great fierceness—­“A man can die but once.”  Again, when one of his intimate acquaintance hinted his hopes, that he would die like a man, he cocked his hat in defiance, and cried out greatly—­“Zounds! who’s afraid?”

Happy would it have been for posterity, could we have retrieved any entire conversation which passed at this season, especially between our hero and his learned comforter; but we have searched many pasteboard records in vain.

On the eve of his apotheosis, Wild’s lady desired to see him, to which he consented.  This meeting was at first very tender on both sides; but it could not continue so, for unluckily, some hints of former miscarriages intervening, as particularly when she asked him how he could have used her so barbarously once as calling her b—­, and whether such language became a man, much less a gentleman, Wild flew into a violent passion, and swore she was the vilest of b—­s to upbraid him at such a season with an unguarded word spoke long ago.  She replied, with many tears, she was well enough served for her folly in visiting such a brute; but she had one comfort, however, that it would be the last time he could ever treat her so; that indeed she had some obligation to him, for that his cruelty to her would reconcile her