had
before been unable to meet the expenses of it. Passing through the Upper
Province they reached Montreal, whence they sailed for England. After a
prosperous voyage they found themselves amid the familiar scenes of
their childhood, where they still live in the enjoyment of as much
happiness as usually falls to the lot of mortals.

THE UNFORTUNATE MAN.

On a sultry afternoon in midsummer I was walking on a lonely
unfrequented road in the Township of S. My mind was busily occupied, and
I paid little attention to surrounding objects till a hollow, unnatural
voice addressed me, saying: "Look up my friend, and behold the
unfortunate man." I raised my eyes suddenly, and, verily, the appearance
of the being before me justified his self-bestowed appellation--the
unfortunate man. I will do my best to describe him, although I am
satisfied that my description will fall far short of the reality. He was
uncommonly tall, and one thing which added much to the oddity of his
appearance was the inequality of length in his legs, one being shorter
by several inches than the other, and, to make up for the deficiency, he
wore on the short leg a boot with a very high heel. He seemed to be past
middle age, his complexion was sallow and unhealthy, he was squint-eyed,
and his hair, which had once been of a reddish hue, was then a grizzly
gray. Taken all together he was a strange looking object, and I soon
perceived that his mind wandered. At first I felt inclined to hurry
onward as quickly as possible, but, as he seemed harmless and inclined
to talk to me, I lingered for a few moments to listen to him. "I do not
wonder," said he, "that you look upon me with pity, for it is a sad
thing for one to be crazy." Surprised to find him so sensible of his own
situation I said: "As you seem so well aware that you are crazy, perhaps
you can inform me what caused you to become so." "Oh yes," replied he,
"I can soon tell you that: first my father died, then my mother, and
soon after my only sister hung herself to the limb of a tree with a
skein of worsted yarn; and last, and worst of all, my wife, Dorcas Jane,
drowned herself in Otter Creek." Wondering if there was any truth in
this horrible story, or if it was only the creation of his own diseased
mind, I said, merely to see what he would say next, "What caused your
wife to drown herself; was she crazy too?" "Oh no," replied he, "she was
not crazy, but she was worse than that; for she was jealou