The constable who arrested me came forward next, and spoke as to the few words which passed between us, affirming how I had confessed to a certain letter as being written by myself, and that I alone was to be held responsible for its contents. When he left the table, the judge called on me for my defence. I stared vaguely from side to side, and asked to what charge?
“You have been present, prisoner, during the whole of this examination, and have distinctly heard the allegation against you,” replied he. “The charge is for having written a threatening letter to one of his Majesty's ministers of state,—a letter which in itself constitutes a grave offence, but is seriously aggravated as being part of a long-pursued system of intimidation, and enforced by menaces of the most extreme violence.”
I was now suddenly recalled to a clearness of comprehension, and able to follow him as he detailed how a certain Mr. Conway—the private secretary of the minister—proved the receipt of the letter in question, as well as two others in the same hand. The last of these—which constituted the chief allegation against me—was then read aloud; and anything more abominable and detestable it would be hard to conceive. After recapitulating a demand for certain documents,—so vaguely worded as to seem a mere invented and trumped-up request,—it went to speak of great services unrewarded, and honorable zeal not only neglected but persecuted. From this—which so far possessed a certain degree of coherency and reason—it suddenly broke off into the wildest and most savage menaces. It spoke of one who held life so cheaply that he felt no sacrifice in offering it up for the gratification of his vengeance.
“Houseless, friendless, and starving; without food, without a name,—-for you have robbed me of even that,—I have crawled to your door to avenge myself and die!”
Such were the last words of this epistle; and they ring in my ears even yet, with shame and horror.
“I never uttered such sentiments as these,—words like those never escaped me!” cried I, in an agony of indignation.
“There is the letter,” said the magistrate; “do you deny having written it?”
“It is mine,—it is in my own hand,” muttered I, in a voice scarcely audible; and I had to cling to the dock to save myself from falling.
Of what followed I know nothing, absolutely nothing. There seemed to be a short debate and discussion of some kind; and I could catch, here and there, some chance phrase or word that sounded compassionately towards me. At last I heard the magistrate say,—
“If you tell me, Mr. Conway, that Mr. Pitt does not wish to press the charge, nor do more than protect himself from future molestation, I am willing to admit the prisoner to bail—good and sufficient bail—for his conduct hereafter. In default of this, however, I shall feel bound to commit him.”