A strange page in the book of human life is this! Thought I, as he
left the room. That man, the perpetrator of so many hundred
murders, thinks on the past with satisfaction and pleasure; nay he
takes a pride in recalling the events of his life, almost every one
of which is a murder, and glories in describing the minutest
particulars of his victims, and the share he had in their
destruction, with scarcely a symptom of remorse! Once or twice only
has he winced while telling his fearful story, and what agitated
him most at the commencement of his tale I have yet to hear.
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