this measure till we were certain of no obstacle in the way of my liberation: for, though I cannot presuppose such impediment, a failure, after advertisement, would be very awkward.

And now, only reflect a moment on the bare possibility of my exhibition on the second of June.TM

I go out on Friday, for aught that yet appears, not early in the day. My books, valuable, and with my notes, I must pack up carefully, after I get out. So that, if I set off on the next morning, which is almost impracticable, I could but have an interval of one day between my arrival at Hackney, and the lectures, without the power of returning even a call to those friends here, who have so much alleviated my solitude by their various civilities, and their regular visits. Would this be proper?

Again: scarcely a soul leaves this place without illness from the transition-silence and solitude, to noise, variety, and bustle-and all this in London! Though I feel no particular emotion on the prospect of this event, and expect to feel as little as any man on its arrival, my knowledge of its effects on others will not

m The day first fixed for the commencement of his Lectures in London.

allow me to presume on an entire exemption from these inconveniences.

In short, it is highly probable, that such a degree of delirious perturbation, from the novelty of every appearance, will ensue, as would entirely disqualify any man for a collected discharge of such an office before an audience, which, in any case, could not be addressed without an entire sobriety, and concentration of the faculties.

Indeed, the whole scheme might be overset by that species of derangement, which all my reflection may be unable to palliate, and which nothing can keep off but a gradual reconcilement to the tumult, and varieties of common life. This trial of transition is aggravated, in my case, by the number and value of my friends, added to my restoration to a part of my family after so long an ab

sence.

I have found myself in a precarious situation, these three or four last days, with my old complaint in my shoulder, for the third or fourth time since my confinement, so that I have had recourse to my opium; and am rather better to-day.

We are all, as ever, yours,

GILBERT WAKEFIELD.

Soon after he wrote to his daughter, now: on a visit at Nottingham, the following letter.. It was the last she received from him during his imprisonment.

MY DEAR ANN,

Dorchester Gaol, May 23, 1801.

I HEAR to-day from my lawyer that I must not go out before the 30th. If this be no mistake, and I have written about it this day, it may be regarded as one of those little embarrassments, which I have suspected, as well as you, might possibly interrupt the joy of our approaching deliverance. One day is now of importance, both because the time of my lectures is fixed, and because we have much packing up of books, and furniture to dispatch, during our short stay at this place.

We mean to see Lord Pembroke's and Stonehenge, on our return, and to go through Winchester.

It would have given us great pleasure to have fallen in with Mr. H- -'s plan; but I wish to take an excursion with your mother, yourself and sister, through Cambridge and Lincoln to Nottingham, after my lectures; and thence, inclination, as well as duty, will lead

us to Stockport and Liverpool: but these grand schemes must be suspended for future deliberation.

It is very satisfactory information to me, that my letters have contributed so much to your enjoyment during absence from us. I certainly, in writing them, had an immediate view to your gratification.

There certainly can be no objection, in any view, to the attendance of ladies on my lectures: had there been any, I could not have wished yourself and your sister to be present.

As my books are mostly sent away, and my mind entirely directed to other objects than study, my time passes more languidly and wearisomely, than at any period since my confinement; and, indeed, the absence of Mr.

has been attended with more regret than many would suppose; but the regular society of a fellow-creature was always highly valued by me.

One consolation of no ordinary kind, with which my solitude has been cheered, is the

" One of the debtors, of whom Mr. Wakefield had taken very kind notice, and who had been lately liberated.

many testimonials, by letter, of condolence and affection from correspondents regular or occasional, so eminently respectable for their accomplishments of the understanding, and the

heart.

Give our respectful and affectionate remembrances to Mrs. Mr. and Miss Hand our best love to your aunt, uncle, and cousins. Your mother and sister join in the tenderest wishes for your health and happiness, no less, my dear girl! than

Your loving father and friend,

GILBERT WAKEFIELD.

Mr. Wakefield quitted Dorchester Gaol on Friday, May 29, 1801, "after an abode of two years," as he remarks," in a room on which the sun never shone, and within walls, whose height almost excluded his rays from the area of the prison."

He had previously complied with that part of his sentence which obliged him to "give security for his good behaviour for the term of five years; himself in the sum of £500, with two sufficient sureties in £250 each." In sharing with him this last infliction of judicial severity, one of the present writers had the gratification of joining Mr. Barclay, M. P. for Bridport, with whom Mr. Wakefield had be