A circumstance of life and death induces me to write to you. An unfortunate man—a husband and a father—was found guilty, two days back, of embezzling a bank note out of a letter. There were many extenuating circumstances in his favour; his judge felt them, and recommended him to the mercy of the jury; but in vain. The wretched man sent to me (why I know not) to request I would use my interest with Baron Smith, who spoke so eloquently in his favour—this was late yesterday. I sent instantly to him; but he had gone to the country. I wrote a petitionary letter which he did not get till this morning in Court; I have yet received no answer. I have been all day driving about to try my interest; but all my legal friends were engaged on business. Pray let me know, by a line, any time to-morrow before two o’clock, to whom I ought to apply, or what can be done? If Smith recommends him to the Duke’s mercy, or if I get a memorial presented to the Duchess, will it be of avail? The interest I take in a wretch who thus throws himself on me is beyond all expression.
Pray forgive this liberty, this trouble; it is my dernier ressort. I should not like to commit myself unavailingly by getting a memorial presented to their Graces. You, perhaps, know to what purpose I should do it. I fear you cannot read this; I write it in a carriage at Lord Arran’s door. S. O.
