her back to my distracted bosom, and fled with her to some distant
land, there still to have lived and loved her. But she sought rather to
conceal her guilt than ask forgiveness. My reason fled me, my passion
rose above my judgment, I sank under the burden of my sorrow, attempted
to put an end to her life, and to my own misery. Failing in this, for my
hand was stayed by a voice I heard calling to me, I fled the country and
sought relief for my feelings in the wilds of Chili. I left nearly all
to my wife, took but little with me, for my object was to bury myself
from the world that had known me, and respected me. Destitution followed
me; whither I went there seemed no rest, no peace of mind for me. The
past floated uppermost in my mind. I was ever recurring to home, to
those with whom I had associated, to an hundred things that had endeared
me to my own country. Years passed--years of suffering and sorrow, and I
found myself a lone wanderer, without friend or money. During this time
it was reported at home, as well as chronicled in the newspapers, that I
was dead. The inventor of this report had ends, I will not name them
here, to serve. I was indeed dead to all who had known me happy in this
world. Disguised, a mere shadow of what I was once, I wandered back to
New York, heart-sick and discouraged, and buried myself among those
whose destitution, worse, perhaps, than my own, afforded me a means of
consolation. My life has long been a burden to me; I have many times
prayed God, in his mercy, to take me away, to close the account of my
misery. Do you ask my name? Ah! that is what pains me most. To live
unknown, a wretched outcast, in a city where I once enjoyed a name that
was respected, is what has haunted my thoughts, and tortured my
feelings. But I cannot withhold it, even though it has gone down,
tainted and dishonored. It is Henry Montford. And with this short record
I close my history, leaving the rest for those to search out who find
this paper, at my death, which cannot be long hence.

"HENRY MONTFORD.
"_New York, Nov. --, 184-._"

A few sighs follow the reading of the paper, but no very deep interest,
no very tender emotion, is awakened in the hearts of the goodly.
Nevertheless, it throws a flood of light upon the morals of a class of
society vulgarly termed fashionable. The meek females hold their tears
and shake their heads. Brother Spyke elongates his lean figure, draws
near, and says the whole thing i