aces. Mr. Wainwright,
however, never left hold of Smith until they reached his house when, the
door suddenly opening, he rushed in and quickly closed it. He then came
to the window and ordered Mr. Wainwright away, refusing him shelter,
although it was growing dark and raining heavily. Mr. Wainwright
contrived to crawl to a cottage, where he was laid up for some time, but
eventually recovered from the cuts and wounds inflicted upon him. Smith
absconded, and a reward of 50 pounds was offered for his capture. This
was effected after some time in Pall Mall, London, by two Bow-street
runners. Smith was committed for trial at Stafford assizes, where he was
found guilty and sentenced to be hung. He, however, escaped that
punishment by destroying both himself and his wife in his cell in
Stafford gaol, while awaiting his sentence. What Smith's motive could be
for his conduct no one could conjecture. He would give no explanation on
the subject though pressed to do so. It was supposed that a sudden fit
of insanity had seized him, and that his violence was the result of it.
During the journey the two gentlemen were on the most friendly terms,
taking their meals together and acting as travellers thrown together
usually do. Mr. Wainwright's presence was most essential to Smith to
allay the hostility of his creditors, and therefore, the attempts to make
away with him were still more incomprehensible.

As I sit by my fire-side with two or three old friends--friends, indeed,
for I have known them all for fifty, sixty, and seventy years--we talk
over old times, faces, scenes and places, in a way that calls up the
ghosts of the past to our dim eyes. If my readers could listen to our
stories of the old town they would hear more about it in a night than my
little amanuensis could write down in a day. Many curious anecdotes and
circumstances are called to remembrance by us, and I must say we talk of
old times with a regretful yet pleasant feeling. I know I often startle
some of my young friends by telling them of scenes I have witnessed in
the last century, and I have often noticed them in their minds putting
one year and another together, or subtracting one from another so that
they might ascertain whether I was telling the truth or not.

I don't believe there is another man in Liverpool alive at this time who
saw the Town Hall on fire in 1795. I saw it, I may say, almost break
out, for I was in Castle-street in ten minutes a