The Ottawa Free Trader

'Tis true, 'tis pity
And pity 'tis, 'tis true.

It is an old saying, Messrs. Editors, that 'truth is stranger than fiction,' and 'by your leave I will a round unvarnished tale deliver' which will serve as an additional illustration of this musty aphorism.

In a recent excursion through the State of Wisconsin, I made the acquaintance of an amiable and estimable lady, of whose misfortunes the following facts were furnished me:

In the year 1845 or 1846, she was a resident of the flourishing village of Grand Rapids, in Western Michigan; was wooed and won by a gentleman of that village, (whom, for obvious reasons, I shall call Mr. D.) and commenced life, happy in the love of a husband to whom she had surrendered her heart's best treasures. Her husband engaged in mercantile business in the village above referred to, received important pecuniary assistance from his friends, and as fair prospects for success in life as generally falls to the share of young men in the West. Years rolled on, and there was born to them a lovely child to grace and beautify their domestic life and give additional strength to the vows of affection which had been plighted at God's altar. Alas! that so fair a paradise could not be protected from the incursion of the Demon who so often lures men to destruction.

Occasional conviviality, terminating in confirmed habits of dissipation, is so old a story that your readers need not be detained by the recital of it: and the unfortunate Mr. D. was but another instance in illustration. In the madness caused by drink, business was neglected, and property ran to waste, whilst the calm and sacred joys of the domestic hearth ceased to have attraction for a brain and heart set on fire by the accursed alcohol. In the meantime, his creditors became clamorous for their dues; in short, with utter ruin staring him in the face, the unhappy man, in a fit of insane desperation, resolved to abandon his much wronged family, to hide his shame and disgrace amongst strangers. With this determination, he consulted a legal friend, (whom we shall call Mr. H.) who, after in vain endeavoring to dissuade him from his purpose, advised him to provide first for his family, and afterwards for his parents and creditors.

In concurrence with this wholesome advice, Mr. D. disposed of the remnant of his property, and placed in the hands of his friend, the attorney, a certain sum for his father, and $400 or $500 in negotiable notes for the benefit of his wife and child, and deserted the place. His departure was, of course, a nine days' wonder, but no one except Mr. H. knew what provision he had made for his afflicted family, who, save the means left in the hands of Mr. H., had no earthly dependence but the poor and infirm old father of Mr. D.

There resided in the village a lawyer, whose wife was a cousin of Mrs. D. This man, for the want of a more appropriate name, may be known as Mr. Shylock, a lineal descendant—if similarity of character be an index of descent—of the respectable gentleman of that name who has been immortalized by the great English dramatist. This man imagined that D. must have made some provision for his family, and with the keen scent of the bloodhound, endeavored to follow the trail of the mystery. With this purpose in view, he despatched his wife to hold a confidential interview with Mrs. D., and by this means learned the facts in the case; whereupon himself paid a visit to the bereaved lady, and endeavored to persuade her to withdraw the notes from the possession of Mr. H., and place them in his hands, a request she very prudently declined. Foiled in this attempt to swindle her of her little all, the hypocritical knave—for we regret to say he was of that number who, by their connexion with the church, reflect disgrace on our holy religion—in the spirit of disappointed malice, procured some claim against D. and garnisheed the gentleman who had possession of the notes. Mr. H. feared all was lost; but on a close inspection of the garnishee papers, detected a trivial inaccuracy which he hoped might invalidate them. He therefore at once placed the notes in the hands of Mrs. D., with strict injunctions as to prudence and secrecy on her part. The trial came on, and as Mr. H. had hoped, the papers proved inaccurate. Having failed to get to the windward of the lawyer, our friend Shylock again attempted to practice on the credulity and inexperience of the woman. With this purpose he paid her several visits, apologized for his former line of conduct towards her, assured her that in future he would stand her friend, and, finally, succeeded in obtaining her confidence.

Having thus spread his toils about his unsuspecting victim, he soon succeeded in robbing her of her little property in the following manner. He requested her on one occasion to furnish him with the date of the notes. She produced them in compliance with his request, when he took them from her hand, put them in his pocket, and left the house, returning to the bosom of his own family with the proud and consoling reflection that he had stolen the last dollar from the unhappy mother and destitute child. Doubtless in his evening devotions of that day he sang with great unction—

'That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.'

Heart broken and desolate, the injured lady resolved to leave a spot where her early dream of happiness had been blasted, and where those who should have cherished and consoled her in affliction, evinced towards her nothing but villany of the blackest hue. Weary and heavy laden, she disposed of her small stock of household goods, pressed her darling babe to her breast, and departed to hide amongst strangers the bitterness of that grief which admits no earthly consolation. But, as if her afflictions were not already sufficient to weigh her to the earth, she was attacked with a disease of the eyes, which has left her nearly blind. Now, separated from friends, ignorant of the whereabouts or fate of her husband, she is eking out a weary existence, dependent for kind offices on the uncertain charity of strangers, looking forward hopefully to death as the termination of her sorrows, were it not for the precious child for whose sake she is still willing to stay in a world which is, to her, a weary waste of crushed affections and blighted hopes.

Such, Messrs. Editors, is my 'o'er true tale' and while we look with compassion on the mock griefs of the stage, and drop a tear of sympathy over the unreal sufferings of the heroines of romance, would it not be well for us to look about to discover the sufferings that are daily endured in our own circle of observation, and endeavor to bind up the bleeding hearts whose wounds are open to our own inspection.

VINDEX.