"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on {MS my} {FC the] the hands which executed the deed; I think {MS of} on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when [they] <these hands> will meet my eyes, when [it] <that imagination> will haunt my [thoughts, no] <thoughts no> more.

"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither [your's] <yours> nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me [hither] <thither>, and [I] shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and [sense, will] <sense will> pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the [first] images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the [chirping] <warbling> of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?