he drink that was by his bedside. Towards the
evening he became more easy, and went to sleep: I left him, therefore,
till the next day. As I supposed, the mortification had commenced, for
the doctor told him so the next morning, when he visited him, and the
chaplain pointed out to him that all hopes of living were now over.
Spicer heard the communication unmoved. He asked the doctor how long he
might live, and his reply was, it was possible four or five days, and
that he would feel no more pain. He was now able to listen to Anderson,
and he did so. I shall not trouble the reader with repeating what
Anderson imparted to me, as I can give him an idea of Spicer's feelings
by what passed between us.

"Tom," said he, "I have led a very wicked life, so wicked, that I hate
to think of it, and I hate myself. I believe all that Anderson and the
chaplain tell me, and I find that I may hope and do hope for mercy; but
I can't cry, or wail, or tear my hair. The fact is, Tom, I can't feel
afraid: if I am pardoned, and I do scarcely expect it, I shall be all
gratitude, as well I may. Should I be condemned, I shall acknowledge my
punishment just, and not complain, for I have deserved all; but I cannot
feel fear: I believe I ought; but it is not in my nature, I suppose."

"But you do not feel anything like defiance, Spicer?"

"No, God forbid! no, nothing like that, but my spirit cannot quail."

He was very anxious for the chaplain the last two days of his life, and
I really believe was _sincere_ in his repentance; but before I wind up
his history, I will narrate to the reader those portions of his life
which are unknown, and which are necessary to the explanation of other
matters.

He told me that when he first went to sea, he had joined a vessel
employed in the slave trade, that he had left it at Gambia, and shipped
on board of a vessel which was about to cruise on the Spanish Main. He
was some time in her, and had been appointed second officer, when he
resolved to fit out a vessel and cruise for himself. He had therefore
quitted the vessel at Surinam, and worked his passage home in a sugar
ship.

It was on his return home this time, that, as old Nanny had told me, he
had taken to gaming, and eventually had robbed his mother. With the two
thousand pounds in his pocket, he had repaired to Liverpool, where he
fell in with Fitzgerald, a young man who had served as first mate in the
vessel in which they had cruised on the