borne away, in splinters, from the scene of murder. He knows that
the eyes of Europe are upon him; but he is not proud--only graceful.
He bows, like the first gentleman in Europe, to the turnkey who
brings him a glass of water; and composes his clothes and hassock as
carefully, as good Madame Blaize could do. In private--within the
walls of the condemned cell--every word and action of his waning
life, is a lie. His whole time is divided between telling lies and
writing them. If he ever have another thought, it is for his
genteel appearance on the scaffold; as when he begs the barber "not
to cut his hair too short, or they won't know him when he comes
out". His last proceeding but one is to write two romantic love
letters to women who have no existence. His last proceeding of all
(but less characteristic, though the only true one) is to swoon
away, miserably, in the arms of the attendants, and be hanged up
like a craven dog.

Is not such a history, from first to last, a most revolting and
disgraceful one; and can the student of it bring himself to believe
that it ever could have place in any record of facts, or that the
miserable chief-actor in it could have ever had a motive for his
arrogant wickedness, but for the comment and the explanation which
the Punishment of Death supplies!

It is not a solitary case, nor is it a prodigy, but a mere specimen
of a class. The case of Oxford, who fired at Her Majesty in the
Park, will be found, on examination, to resemble it very nearly, in
the essential feature. There is no proved pretence whatever for
regarding him as mad; other than that he was like this malefactor,
brimful of conceit, and a desire to become, even at the cost of the
gallows (the only cost within his reach) the talk of the town. He