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Rh first turned to the western side of the bridge, but that aspect did not suit my deed. There was still a good deal of light in the west, and as the breeze raised the clouds from the horizon, and chased them on, a momentary change of scene from quickly varying light and shadow was pro- duced, which did not harmonise with my purpose. Those clouds seemed to carry my thoughts from gloom and death to the pleasant home of my youth. Many an evening, on returning from a day’s hunting or shooting, I had delighted to imagine them thus sweeping over, on their long, long journey, to hang over the sailor’s storm tossed ship, and lend their gloom to the horrors of the tempest. I turned from the West to the East side; here all was blackness and haze; I resolved not to hesitate another moment; I placed my foot on the rail, and fixed my eye on the whirling black eddies below, which seemed to my then excited imagination as the smiles on the face of a fiend laughing at my destruction. A thought perfectly ridiculous then occurred to me. I have said that I could not swim. I thought, then, I shall sink at once; and while yet full of life, I shall struggle, perhaps stand, and walk, on the slimy bed of the river, with the waters pouring and rushing by over my head. I don’t know why, but this idea was full of horror to me; I was prepared to die by drowning, but not with my feet on earth. Had the water been a hundred fathoms deep, I thought I could have made the plunge without hesitation; having look- ed at the water for two or three minutes, I turn- ed away, walked off the bridge through the toll- gate, instead of the way I had projected, and took the nearest way home. As I approached my lodgings I became bitterly ashamed of myself— by a most absurd and fantastic idea. I had de- termined to drown myself, and changed my pur- pose because the thought of struggling in the mud occurred to me! I resolved to drown my- self the next day. When I got home I took tea, and eat several rounds of toast, just as if I had not been a man whose mind was set on suicide, and who was about to play his part in a grand and sad tragedy, for so I considered it.

The next day I rose late, made additions to my letter to Louisa, read Werter till nearly four, and then again went forth to do the deed, but having had enough of Battersea, I chose not to go far- ther than Millbank this. time. out for a proper spot, I saw two genteel lads en- gaged in a row with some drunken fellows who were hustling and bullying them; I believe that I never wanted courage in the common accep- tation of the word, and I interfered now more boldly in the affray than perhaps I should have done at another season and in another frame of mind. After a few blows and more words, the ruffians sheered off, the youths were all gratitude, and we walked together some distance; when we parted suicide was as much out of my head as if it had never been init. I again found my way to my home, and did not feel ashamed of my postponement of the execution of my purpose this time as I did before. My gallantry in the affray assuring me of my courage. But after this I thought no more of drowning, persuading myself that there was a fatality against it.

The conclusion of this day brought me to my last shilling, but instead of running out my last sand with it as I had projected, I bethought my- self of two or three articles of jewellery of small value which I possessed, and I resolved to sell them z.nd to live a day or two longer on the mo- ney. This I did; how I lived I care not to tell; suffice it to say, I sought distraction every possible way. On Christmas day I came to my last dollar, and a melancholy day it was. The excitement which I had produced for some days past by artificial means, had given place to the usual consequent depression: my purse was just exhausted: the people at my lodgings looked suspiciously on me: my duns threatened me for the morrow: I was alone in this great city, with- out a hope for the future, or a friend to cheer the present moment. I remained for many hours in an agony of misery. At one instant I thought of throwing myself on my family, and, if neces- sary, conceding to their wishes; but when I re- flected on the high tone I had assumed, and the firm resolution I had professed, a resolution on which I extravagantly piqued myself, I fancied that it would be the height of meanness in me to succumb. I had in truth vapoured a good deal; I had played the hero of romance to the life. I had filled the glass, I must drink it, thought I. Lou- isa Daventry shall lament, but never despise me.

To a friendless, unconnected man, in a large city, a great festival which draws together each domestic circle, and leaves the stranger alone, To me, des- titute, full of sad thoughts, and desperate resolu- tion, it was a day of bitterness indeed. I saw gladness all around me, and felt misery within. Every sign of cheerfulness quickened the sense of my own forlorn condition. I envied every creature that met my sight, for I fancied that every creature but myself made one welcome guest in some dear circle. I was no where link- ed in this vast social chain. The thought was bitterness to me, and it afflicted me more than my poverty and its attendant miseries. I have hinted that I was the creature of sentiment, and thrown as I had been, suddenly out of the foster- ing bosom of a family on the cold wide world, it may not be difficult to understand my feelings.

About the middle of the day my landlady came up stairs, and in that peculiar voice and manner which are produced in landladies by an unpaid bill, asked me whether I did not dine out, taking care to remind me at the same time that it was Christmas-day. I told her I did, and at about four o’clock I left the house, intending to walk about till night, when I purposed to end all my earthly troubles and mortifications. The even- ing was close and heavy, a drizzling rain fell now and then, and every thing out of doors looked blank and gloomy. There was no appearance of any thing social or cheerful about to shock me by contrast.

solitary—is a melancholy occasion. I felt that a tragic resolution had been defeated

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