Every reader of this sorrowful story will remember how Lucy was forced by her mother into an agreement to marry a detested wretch on account of his wealth; how Ravenswood confronted the family and poured out the terrors of his wrath and indignation; how he closed his scathing invectives by turning to Lucy with the words, “And to you, madam, I have nothing further to say, except to pray to God that you may not become a world’s wonder for this act of wilful and deliberate perjury;” how Lucy, in a paroxysm of insanity, attempted to murder Bucklaw in the bridal chamber; and how, soon after, death closed for her the tragic scenes of earth. * * * * * How a loving kiss enfeebled and finally paralyzed the arm of a murderess is told by Bulwer-Lytton in his “Lucretia:” “Late in the evening, before she retired to rest, Helen knocked gently at her aunt’s door. A voice quick and startled bade her enter. She came in with her sweet, caressing look, and took Lucretia’s hand, which struggled from the clasp. Bending over that haggard brow, she said, simply, yet to Lucretia’s ear the voice seemed that of command, ‘Let me kiss you this night!’ and her lips pressed that brow. The murderess shuddered, and closed her eyes; when she opened them, the angel visitor was gone.” What followed was the theme of a conference with a fellow-conspirator, from which we extract the following dialogue: “Shutting the door with care, and turning the key, Gabriel said, with low, suppressed passion,— “‘Well, your mind seems wandering. Speak!’ “‘It is strange,’ said Lucretia, in hollow tones. ‘Can Nature turn accomplice, and befriend us here?’ “‘Nature! did you not last night administer the——’ “‘No,’ interrupted Lucretia. ‘No; she came into the room; she kissed me here, on the brow that even then was meditating murder. The kiss burned; it burns still;—it eats, into the brain like remorse. But I did not yield; I read again her false father’s protestation of love; I read again the letter announcing the discovery of my son, and remorse lay still; I went forth as before; I stole into her chamber; I had the fatal crystal in my hand——’ “‘Well! well!’ “‘And suddenly there came the fearful howl of a dog: and the dog’s fierce eyes glared on me; I paused, I trembled; Helen started, woke, called aloud; I turned and fled. The poison was not given.’” And afterwards she said,— “‘That kiss still burns; I will stir in this no more.’” * * * * * When it comes to the “last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history,” few can equal in power and pathos the popular writer, Samuel Warren, as witness one or two passages in the “Diary of a Physician.” In “The Wife,” which is a record of incredible atrocities on the part of a brutal husband, and of patient endurance and endless forgiveness on the part of the wife, we come to the closing scene: