For the New-York Weekly Magazine.
THE CRIMINAL.
(Continued from [page 335].)
O moment for reflection! O innocence forever fled!—My children are satisfied, and—I am miserable. O God of nature, hear my cries! I would ask of thee forgiveness, for oh! the deed of yesterday hangs heavy on my soul. What have I done?—I stopped the stranger, and asked his purse: he refused. I clapt the murderous weapon to his breast and demanded it—he hesitated.——In imagination I viewed my family perishing for food. I could not wait—The flint struck—the stranger fell—and—O earth hide me in thy bosom!—Wretch! how do the words escape my lips—I beheld my father.——
When reason had regained its seat, I found myself in company with my children, relieving their wants from out my father’s purse.
My wife questioned me as to the manner of my procuring the unexpected boon. The truth I did not evade; but I related to her every circumstance, except that the murdered person was the author of my being. She shuddered at the tale. “O my husband!” she uttered, “why did you not inform me of your intention? Sooner would I have perished of hunger, than the crime should have been committed.” “Alas!” I returned, “while yet conscious innocence held thine eyelids closed, the deed was perpetrated.
“O my Euphemia! thou knowest not the extent of my villainy! If thou didst, thou wouldest shun my sight, and think me a devil that had assumed the form of man. What crime is worse than——But stop, thy feeble frame cannot now stand the shock.—Summon all thy fortitude; soon will the awful tidings sound dreadful in thine ears.”
L. B.