Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1859-04-06
THE BROKEN-HEARTED:
Or, CRIME ITS OWN AVE,

Recently letter was published in some of
the newspapers, in which Harlow Case, the de-
faulting collector of Sandusky, Ohio, anuounc-
ed the decease of the unhappy woman who
had accompanied his flight, and implored the
forgiveness of her husband. Under the title
given above, ] missionary correspondent of
the Boston WafchmanS & Reflector, describes an
interview with the guilty pair, which took
place shortly before death hurried away the
mother and the child whom she had made the
companion of her wanderings. The subject
il painful one, but the writer describes SO
feelingly and truthfuly the self-inflicted mis-
cry of Case and his partner in guilt, that We
produce his narrative
What though the spicy breezes,
Blow soft DER Ceylons Isle;
Though every prospect pleases.
And only man is vile"
Curousfy enough, was just repeating this
stanza, when my new acquaintance called fer
me. had met him while on a business visit
to Ceylon, as countryman of mine, and was
pleased with the opportunity that afforded me
u more intimate personal knowledge.
thought myself fortunate i'll falling in with
so agreeable gentleman, and considered his
face and manners peculiarly refined. On our
second meeting l noticed a singular restless
ness of the handsome dark eyes, an irritable
bitterness of the lips, and disposition to be
constantly on the move, shown in the tapping
of light, bamboo cane, or the motion of foot
or hand.
These things, however, did not strike me
singular at the time, but coupled with what
afterwards learned, were certain evidence, that
the man felt already the cravings of the worm
that never dies.
One forenoon we left the little seaport town
where was sojourning, and rode a short dis
tsnce into the interior of the gorgeous Island.
Most glor ous were the surroundings on every
hand. With prodigality quite undreamed of
hy the inhabitants of a colder cline, nature
had showered her most exquisite floral gifts
everywhere. Trees loaded with sTest-smel-
ing flowers, their intense colors vieing with
the foliage of richer green, from out which
they smiled tall cactus plants, with crimson,
goblet-shaped blossoms; lilies, gorgeous in
the qneenly unfolding of form and color-ev-
crythine rich, lavish, wonderful, met our
eyes, feasted TO fullncss with this tropical lux
uriance.
ssThat is my house, said my new friend,
pointing to low rooted cottage, surrounded
by wide verandah, from whose clinging vines
sweet odors were flung upon the soft atmo-
sphere-but from the moment the words were
uttered his geniality departed.
Within the cottage enclosure were walks,
bowers and fountains. Chaste statuary was
dispersed over the grounds with most charm
ing effect. The house seemed almost fairy
structure, rising in the midst of flowers and
foliage. And the man who sat beside me,
whose smile mounted no higher than his lips
eye growing every moment more perceptible
was the owner of this Eden-like home
We were met on the threshold by lovely
child of some eleven summers. Her halr hung
in curls. Her eyes were particularly lustrous,
yet mournful in beauty, and on the young
brow | seemed to see something-a shadow
of sadness-an unchldlike quiet, as she greet
ed my new friend.
Dressed in pure white, she glided in before
us, and to her was left the duty of entertain
ing me while Mr.. c., excusing himself in
the remark that sickness necessarily called him
away for half hour or so, left the room.
"Is your mother very unwellP' asked OF
the little girl, who, with those shadow-hlled
eyes of her, was regarding me gently but at
tentively.
eyes, sir, mamma ha. been sick long
time," replied she, dropping her eyes, "hiie
her lips trembled.
oDid you come from America f she asked,
timidly, after long silence.
eyes, my dear. Do you know anything OF
that country 20 / returned, growing more ana
more pleased with her expressive face.
oOnIy that mamma came from there, and
think, % she added, hesitatingly, s'that did.
But Mr.. C. will never let me talk about 1t.
care YOU not then the little daughter OF MT.
g. r., asked somewhat astonished.
oI am my mothers daughter, answered. the
child, with a grave dignity in one so young
and minute after she arose and quietly ieit
the room.
sat watching her white robes fitting thro,
the long shady walk opposite my window, ana
knew that the child brooded over some DARK
.orrow. for her eyes were filed with tears.
why was it, l thought, that painful thoughts
took possession of me as | sat there IL
seemed as if | we're sojourning in an enchanted
.pot. and that some horror was suddenly 10
break upon me. ..,.
At nv side, nearly covering beautiful ia
BILE of ietter-wood, were several costly gilt
books. | took them up carefully, for nave
reverence for books-and turning to the NY
leaf of splendidIy bound copy OF Shakespeare
read
ssTo Mary Frances F., from her de'oloo
husband, Henry E. F."
thrill of surprise and anguish ran rom
vein to vein. Ny thoughts seemed paraiyHea'
The truth had burst upon me with such suu-
deDness that the blood rushed with shock 10
my heart.
knew Henry E. F.; had known him inti-
mately for years. He was friend, towards
whom all my sympathies had been drawn, for
he had seen such sorrow as makes the heart
grow old before its time.
His wife, whom he loved, had deserted him.
She had taken with her his only child. She