He wrote to poor Perceval, _for leave to bring in a Petition_, but was answered that Mr. Perceval thought that his petition "was not of a nature for the Consideration of Parliament." Then he went to the Regent and the Privy Council, but to no purpose: made applications all round, but met with no good, except a reference to the Chancellor of the Exchequer: but here he had been refused help. Then he wrote a letter to the Bow Street Magistrates, stating his case--saying that he would, once more solicit his Majesty's Ministers, through them, and, failing redress from that, he continued, "I shall then feel justified in executing justice myself; in which case, I shall be ready to argue the merits of so reluctant a measure, with his Majesty's Attorney-General, wherever, and whenever I may be called upon to do so. In the hopes of averting so abhorrent, but compulsive an alternative. I have the honour to be, &c." The Magistrates communicated the contents of this packet to the Secretary of State, but it only resulted in a fresh disappointment. He still kept on trying, and his idea of taking vengeance on some one, increased, until it not only became fixed, but he planned its carrying out. He had a pocket made in his coat of a peculiar size and shape, in order to carry a pistol; and on the fatal 11th of May, he hid himself behind one of the folding doors of the lobby of the House of Commons; and when, about a quarter past five, the ill-fated Chancellor made his appearance, Bellingham shot him through the heart. Poor Perceval only reeled a pace or two, faintly called out, that he was murdered, and then fell. The Illustration which I have reproduced is the best I know, and the likenesses of both murderer and victim are extremely good. [Illustration: Mr. Percival Assassinated in the Lobby of the House of Commons, May 11, 1812.] Perceval was at once raised, and carried into the Speaker's apartments, but he died in two or three minutes. His murderer made no attempt to escape, but stood holding the pistol with which he had committed the foul crime, and, when some one called out--"Where is the rascal that fired?" he coolly stepped forward, saying, "I am the unfortunate man," and quietly surrendered himself a prisoner. On being searched, a loaded pistol was found in his pocket--the fellow to that which he was still holding in his hand.