Weight of Blood: being the Case of Major John
Oneby. It was a catch-penny, containing merely
the trial from the Sessions paper, part of a
sermon upon duels by a Mr. Hales of Eton,
and Sir Richard Steel's Theatre, No. 26, on the
same subject. By the pamphleteer himself
there were only three or four short paragraphs.
The remarks that especially affronted the major
were these:

"... But as to Oneby, 'tis greatly to be
feared that as he lived a profligate he will
die a reprobate, having declared since his
conviction that neither his confinement nor his
crime ever gave him so much uneasiness as his
cursed garters (as he is pleased to call his
fetters). After sentence was pronounced, this
bravo showed outward marks of a very great
internal shock."

The ragged garretteer who wrote this street
chap-book had actually the boundless
impudence to visit the major in Newgate, to inform
him, as a friend, that such a work was in the
press, and suggesting that, as it might retard
or prevent a reprieve, the author had better be
bought off. In case the major could not be
squeezed, and refused to become a milch cow,
the eminent author probably thought he might,
in that case, at least collect from the turnkeys
or his own observation some facts to heighten
the seasoning of his work. No money was,
however, to be drawn, and the worthy descendant
of Curll left. When the major read the
book, and discovered that the author and his
visitor were one and the same, he flew into a
stormy rage, and cursed and swore even in the
presence of the ordinary. He then tried several
stratagems to decoy the poor author into
Newgate; but the eminent author was shy, and
Oneby's efforts proved ineffectual. It preyed
upon him, however; and only three days before
his death he said he desired but one thing in the
world, and that was to have the satisfaction of
taking leave of that rascally fellow with a sound
whip: so sensitive can a scoundrel be to a form
of scoundrelism to which he is unaccustomed!

Soon after this, the doomed man's violent
and inflammable temper had another trial from
a selfish and ungrateful world. An obsequious
undertaker came one morning into the press-
yard at Newgate, and sent in the following letter:

"Honoured Sir. This is to inform you that
I follow the business of an undertaker in Drury-
lane, where I have lived many years, and am
well known to several of your friends. As you
are to die on Monday, and have not, as I
suppose, spoke to anybody else about your funeral,
if your honour shall think fit to give me orders,
I will perform it as cheap and in as decent a
manner as any man alive.

            "Your honour's unknown humble servant,
                                                                 "G. H."

The burst of rage into which the major broke
reached the undertaker in the press-yard, and he
fled in dismay. He still continued to write
letters to persons of distinction he had seen or
spoken to when in the army, to intercede for
him; but all in vain. On the Saturday he
learnt that his petition had been presented
and refused. He was gloomy, but obdurate;
he showed no fear, and expressed no sorrow.
The noise of the Saturday night's market
rose round Newgate, the flare of the huxters'
lanterns and grease-pans gleamed into the
condemned cells. The major went to bed about
ten, as usual. At four on the Sunday morning,
about daybreak, when all was still, the
condemned man woke up the turnkey, Hooper,
who was in his room, and called for a glass of
brandy-and-water. The old drunkard's thirst
was on him, and he seemed low and depressed.
He then raised himself in his heavy-curtained
bed, and, getting pen and ink, wrote out his last
will and testament; for the noose, ready knotted,
was lying already in steep for him in the press-
room, and the hangman was perhaps at that
very moment dreaming of his fees and of the
coming job. He wrote his will; it was brief
enough; he had nothing to leave but his frayed,
wine-splashed, cut coat, his tarnished sword,
some false dice, and a pack of prepared cards:

"Cousin Turvill, give Mr. Ackerman, the
turnkey below-stairs, half a guinea; and Jack,
who waits in my room, five shillings. The poor
devils have had a great deal of trouble with me
since I have been here."

The major only requested Jack and his
watchers to go outside and be silent, as he
wanted to compose himself against the coming
of his friends. He drew his curtains carefully,
and the men fell asleep again. The silence was
unbroken till about seven, when his footman
entered the room to call him. The major called
out faintly, as if half asleep:

"Who is that? Philip?"

Soon after, a friend (probably Cousin Turvill,
almost his only friend) came in, and, going to
his bedside, called several times "Major!
Major!" but getting no answer, he at last drew
back the dingy curtains. The bed was streaming
with blood; it lay everywhere in coagulated
pools on the counterpane. The wretched man
was dying. He had balked the hangman of his
fees. A surgeon was sent for; Hooper ran like
a madman for him. Philip stanched a deep
gash in the wrist, which the desperate man had
cut with the penknife he had mended the pen
with that had made his will.

A TALE WITH A STRIKING MORAL,
                           I

THE summer of 1865 was notable for such a
perpetual blaze of sunshine, that the demand on
all hands for umbrellas was nearly as great as if
the season had been a rainy one.

On the evening of one of the fiercest of the
fierce days of July, two young people were
sauntering round the quays of Marseilles, enjoying
some whiffs of air which found their way at rare
intervals from the Mediterranean. Nearly the
entire population was abroad that evening,
gasping for those few whiffs.