Weeks, nay, months, elapsed, and I was only reminded of this circumstance by the daily appearance of Middleton. The few short months were as years upon the calendar of his face, while the curse of memory was dragging him with an iron grasp to an early tomb. One day he told me, in a manner evidently intended to convey the request more as a matter of business than otherwise, to deliver his letters to no person but himself: “remember,” he repeated, “to _no one_, if you please, sir.” I promised to follow his instructions strictly. He had his reasons, and I knew it. As I had anticipated, his wife, a lovely woman, in the fulness of life’s bloom, rich in accomplishments, the _observed_ of all _observers_, called at the office; I could detect beneath the bland smile the canker-worm of domestic sorrow; the seeds of misery were sown, the harvest was ripening. “Are there any letters here for Mr. Middleton?” If I detest any thing in the world, it is the telling of a white lie; it soon leads to a black one. I replied that there were, but orders had been given to deliver them to no person but himself. “Orders, sir?—did he leave such orders?” “He did, madam.” She struggled with passion; it was, however, in vain. The words, “perjured villain,” escaped her, and she left the office. I could now imagine their domestic scenes,—conscious guilt on the one side, injured and insulted innocence on the other. But even this was doomed to have an end. A report ran through the city that a murder had been committed at No. 26 Gaskill Street. Good heavens! The dwelling of Caroline! I hurried to the scene of blood, and there lay the dead body of Middleton, and beside him, in the custody of two officers, his murderer,—a youthful paramour of this modern Jezebel. He forfeited his life upon the gallows, and Caroline Somerville died of _mania a potu_ in the alms-house. What became of the wife of the unfortunate Middleton? the reader may inquire. Do you see that little red frame-house which stands alone; that one with the neat little garden connected with it? There resides Mrs. Middleton, the once happy wife, together with her four small children: to maintain them she takes in washing. Yes, reader, such, alas! is her destiny. The tide of public opinion rolls from crime, even while it carries upon its bosom many a bark freighted with the unhallowed cargo, and involves many an innocent victim in its reckless and overwhelming course. She is now alone in the world, with none to sympathize, none to alleviate her anguish. Her little ones are the peopled world in which she moves; beyond that all is chaos. XVI. Addenda. _ABRAHAM LINCOLN._