A boyhood spurning parental control. A youth of wild, ungoverned passions. These—these—first point the path I trod. And whither—ah whither have they led me! My God—to a mad-house! _But I am not mad!_ At twenty, giddy with the possession of uncontrolled riches, which, as an only son, fell to me at the death of my parents, I plunged wildly within the Maelstrom of dissipation. On—on in its soul-destroying vortex I was whirled for months—nay, years—madly, blindly, sweeping to my destruction. In a fortunate hour my reason, even as now, was restored to me—for remember I am not mad! I suddenly became disgusted with that which had before seemed to me the _all_ that life was designed for. I forsook my gay companions. I filled my library with the choicest books—my walls with the rarest paintings—my halls with master-pieces of sculpture. I traveled—not to see life in the haunts of folly—but the world—poised in the Creator’s hand—to learn from her majestic mountains, heaped up to the skies—from her mighty rivers—her foaming torrents—from the wild cataract and the flaming volcano, the power of God—and the insignificance of man! It was in Italy, pure land of song, that I first met Fanny—the bright, the beautiful star of my destiny. Ah, pause memory—pause on this blest vision! Pass not too soon from my tortured brain—but for a moment stay, and soothe me into forgetfulness of all save Fanny and love! A wasting malady had brought the father of Fanny from the bleak climate of Canada to the pure skies and genial airs of Italy, in the flattering hope that health would once more invigorate his feeble frame—and she, ministering angel, came with him. The lily is not purer than was the soul of Fanny—nor the rose more beautiful than her cheek. She had been nurtured in the lap of indulgence—heaven’s breath scarce allowed to fan her brow—her delicate foot to touch the earth. And I—I won this peerless one to be my bride! Has Heaven aught in store for the blessed can rival that rapturous moment when I called Fanny mine! Fanny! Fanny! where are you now, my beautiful, my injured wife? And I—where am I—the tenant of a mad-house—the companion of maniacs—but I am not mad—no, not mad! We laid her father, in the sleep of death, among the vine-clad hills, and then to my native shores I brought my lovely bride. She was my idol, and at her feet I worshiped. But a day of reverses came. The riches which I had foolishly deemed inexhaustible I found were melting like the morning dew. Too late I saw the ruinous tendency of the life I had led. To retrieve if possible my sinking fortunes, I plunged deeply into speculations—seizing eagerly the wild, visionary schemes of artful or misguided men—and so lost all! I had studiously concealed the truth from poor Fanny, hoping even yet to seize some golden opportunity to re-create a mine of wealth. But now the fatal fact must be told—poor, poor Fanny!