The unfortunate author’s Thoughts on his Imprisonment are thus introduced:—
“My friends are gone! harsh on its sullen hinge
Grates the dread door: the massy bolts respond
Tremendous to the surly keeper’s touch:
The dire keys clang, with movement dull and slow,
While their behest the ponderous locks perform:
And, fasten’d firm, the object of their care
Is left to solitude—to sorrow left.
“But wherefore fasten’d? Oh! still stronger bonds
Than bolts, or locks, or doors of molten brass,
To solitude and sorrow could consign
His anguish’d soul, and prison him, though free!
For whither should he fly, or where produce
In open day, and to the golden sun,
His hapless head! whence every laurel torn,
On his bald brow sits grinning infamy:
And all in sportive triumph twines around
The keen, the stinging arrows of disgrace.”
After dwelling on the miseries of that dreary confinement, at sight of which he formerly started back with horror, he adds,
“O dismal change! now not in friendly sort
A Christian visitor, to pour the balm
Of Christian comfort in some wretch’s ear—
I am that wretch myself! and want, much want,
That Christian consolation I bestow’d;
So cheerfully bestow’d! Want, want, my God,
From thee the mercy, which, thou know’st my gladsome soul
Ever sprang forth with transport to impart.
“Why then, mysterious Providence, pursued
With such unfeeling ardour? Why pursued
To death’s dread bourn, by men to me unknown!
Why—stop the deep question; it o’erwhelms my soul;
It reels, it staggers! Earth turns round! My brain
Whirls in confusion! My impetuous heart
Throbs with pulsation not to be restrain’d;
Why?—Where?—O Chesterfield, my son, my son!”
The unfortunate divine afterwards thus proceeds:—
“Nay, talk not of composure! I had thought
In older time, that my weak heart was soft,
And pity’s self might break it. I had thought
That marble-eyed Severity would crack
The slender nerves which guide my reins of sense,
And give me up to madness! ’Tis not so;
My heart is callous, and my nerves are tough;
It will not break; they will not crack; or else
What more, just heaven! was wanting to the deed,
Than to behold—Oh! that eternal night
Had in that moment screened from myself!
My Stanhope to behold! Ah! piercing sight!
Forget it; ’tis distraction: speak who can!
But I am lost! a criminal adjudged!”
It is not a little singular that Dr. Dodd, a few years before his death, published a Sermon, intitled, “The frequency of capital punishments inconsistent with justice, sound policy, and religion.” This, he says, was intended to have been preached at the Chapel-royal, at St. James’s; but omitted on account of the absence of the court, during the author’s month of waiting.
The following extract will show the unfortunate man’s opinion on this subject, although there is no reason to suppose that he then contemplated the commission of the crime for which he suffered. He says,