Crawfordsville Review, Crawfordsville, Montgomery County, 12 March 1859 — Page 1

"WHO SITTETH

.. THE STORY OF

(COBOLtTDITD.)

4 j£c T.ADY in a .carriage! who can tTJ0L be?" sad the lawyer rat abstractedly conning over whicA of his clients could seek him at bo unseasonable an hOUr. "Are yon rare it ia a lady, John?" "Yes, sir." '"How is she dressed?" "7'In biack, sir silk dress, mantilla, velvet bontoet a real lady, sir." "i "Very well, Bhow her in and the lawyer laid his segar aside, and took his slippered feet down from the chair on which they had been resting. "Good evening, madam," said the lawyer, as a lady, closely vailed, a moment after entered the library "pray be seated here, take this arm chair near the register. The night is a wild one for a lady to venture out. Pray, what may be your business with me, madam?" "I have business of great moment with Mr. Thorrie," the lady replied, in a low, husky tone, "and I would speak with him alone, and where there will be no fear of interruption, or of being overheard."

The lawyer went to the door just in time -to catch sight of the retreating form of Jolrn, who had been doing servant's duty the key-hole. Shutting the door he turned the key, and wheeled in front of it large screen. He then drew down the tightly the window, curtains, anu v..*--. uhultcrs, and taking the large arm v...""1, near his visitor, and as he supposed, client, ho signified that he was ready to hear what she wished to communicate.

The lady, without uttering a "word, slowly, and with a quiet, determined deliberation. raised her vail and confronted the lawyer. "Groat God he exclaimed, as he met her gaze, starting up and staggering backward, "Is this Jenny Irwin?" Then, quickly recovering himself, he resumed his seat, and drawing up near to his visitor, asked her, in a hoarse whisper, what, iu the name of God, had brought her there, and what she would have of him. "I come, Gilbert Thorne," she said, "to have a final reckoning with you." final reckoning with me? Did we not have it six years ago? and did you not 'i liicn ail agreement., under oath, that you would never call upon nie, seek me. speak to me, or in any way interfere with, or address me again? What do you mean, Jenny Irwin?" "I moan this—that when, six years ago, von tired of inc, and wished to cast me off, perhaps for another love, perhaps"— "No, no! Stop there, Jenny stop there.

You know full well that it was not for another love. You know well that my sense of duty alone drove nie to the stop that I provided handsomely for you"— "False! It is false, Gilbert Thome.— You left me worse than penniless—helpless, friendless, hopeless, homeless, aimless!" "Nay, nay. Jenny be just. If you wish to obtain more from inc tell me so plaiuty but do not deny what I have really done. Give me the credit of, at least, generosity toward you. Did I not settle ten thousand dollars upon you, in cash, when you signed that contract, which you have this night a broken? Did I not do more than one man in a thousand could have done? Could I. have done more?" "Now, hear me, Gilbert Thome," she rejoined, in a slow, still voico, and with much emotion "let me say what I have to say without interruption let us not quar•tfii io--f"$ht but let inc simply call to your mind some things which you may have forgotten, and some, perhaps, which you have

never known." lie motioned her to proceed, resting his elbow upon the desk, and his head upon his hand, and gazing upon her with an abstractcd, half sorrowful expression. "You must doubtless remember, Gilbert Thorne, eight years ago to-night. You will never forget it after I have called it again to your mind. You came with my $ brother Dick yon sat next me at the table: fj it was a gay Christmas eve I knew not then, and scarcely thought for a long time fc after, whethor you were married orSiot you said fair things to me then you often came a welcome guest at my father's board you were not rich then, Gilbort Thorne— far from it—well, you sought to win my love

you icon it."

3!:s

A slight tremor over ran the woman's frame, and drawing her hand across her 'forehead, as though to sootho its pain, she •went on: "Then my brother Dick went away to 'California, and who so kind and who so $ brotherly in his attentions as you? Thon came the news of his death—shot by some Jj traitor hand, pursuing his solitary way over the tntmntains then my mother'^, illness .j for Dick was all her love—her

a Another pause, and again (he hand was pressed upon the forehead. Again she "h went on: "We

thought you very kind then,

bert Thorne. It was better, perhaps, for father thai he went as he did—better for him

and

IN JUDGMENT?'' AN OUTCAST.

blind, and mine was blinder than all the rest, or he might have seen what I too late understood. Was it strange, when lie felt the chords of life loosened from earth, that he should have thought you most worthy of tho sacred trust of being his daughter's guardian, and the executor of his will Oh, fate! oh, fate! how cruelly thou dost use us! Well, well, Gilbert Thorne, you were my guardian. The world reputed my father rich. All that he left on earth was left in your keeping—his fortune— and his daughter. You did not take that daughter to your home, and cherish her as a sister, as you promised upon his dying bed—No, no. But I am as much to blame, perhaps, as you, for what followed, with only this difference: There was no excuse for you, as you were a man of mature years, a husband and a father, while I was only a girl of a loving heart—loving as a woman—without knowing or understanding what a fearful thing it is for a woman to embark all the rich freight of her affections on one who can never fill to hor the sacred relations of a husband:— well, well—I became your mistress but God above can bear me witneEB, knew mt xchat I did. I only knew that I loveJ you, worshiped you with all of the intensity of a strong heart's first affection."

Again a pause and again the same hand pressed upon the brain, and again she goes on in softer, lower, and more tremulous voice than before: "I was very, very happy in those few, brief months, Gilbert. I say it with shame, but yet I cannot help but say it. I used to watch for your coming the few times a week which you spared tome, oh! so eagerly, so earnestly. I have thought sometimes that much might be forgiven me for what I tried to be then. I liavo remembered sincc that sometimes you used to tell me about my father's property, and sometimes we went in carriages and signed papers in courts and lawyers' offices, and that after many months you told me that mv father's estate would little more than pay his debts and the expenses of administration. I remember that I never scarcely heeded what you said, and that 1 only cared for the money as it was of need to ipu. I never even thought that you could wrong mo, far kni»w ymi loved me, and was beautiful and worthy of being loved. I can recall all the foolish, yet tender sophistries with which I used to reconcile myself to my fate. 1 would say, 'I can never be his wife but I will be to him such a tender and devoted friend, so true and disinterested, ever watchful of his interests, ever patient, enduring, and loving, that he will cling to mc more fondly than ever husband to wife, and hold me in such close relationship that nothing on earth can ever break the tic which binds us together.' Oh! weak and simple fool!—you little thought that at the very moment when you were building such airy castles, the cherished object of them all was planning to crush them down to earth! "I well remember the night which decided my fate. 1 have thought of it many times, and never without bitterness and hate until to-day. You came to mc as usual. and after our little supper—how sweet those little suppers were!—you told mc that a great change had come over you that your daughter was growing up—your wife, a good, faithful woman, was sufferiug from your neglect that your friends shunned vou that your own conscicncc smote you and many other things of like import: and then, to cap it all, that 1 teas the cause. You said you had determined, while it was yet in your power, to break, at a single stroke, the ties between us, and that each must go our ways, never to meet again. You told me that it had been a matter deliberately thought of by you, and that, from the love which you had borne for me, you could not see mc go unprovided for, and that, to satisfy your conscicncc and your heart, and to insure for mc a permanent support, you would divide your fortune with mc, and settle upon me the sum of ten thousand dollars in cash. "Oh, Gilbert Thorne, what a wretched, wretched night was that! When life came back to me, after the full realization of your purpose had left me insensible upon the floor, and I found myself lying upon the bed where you had placed mc, while you, bending over mc, chafed my temples, and sought, by every tender epithet, to bring me back-to reason—I felt all broken, and as though life was worth no further struggle. You asked mc many, very many things—if I would promise never to see you more—if I would sign a paper, and if I would be satisfied to take ten thousand dollars, and call all things square. I said yes!—yes—yes—to everything. What d:d I care for?

to me

death"

better for me—fathers are very

ichat icas ten thousand dollars

Well,

you

left

mc, and

promised

come the next evening. You came, and with you came a friend—you said

to make out the papars.

Gil-

a broth

er lawyer—to witness the settlement,

and

remember

thing you told me to, and then, when all was finished, you handed me a paper and little book, and told me that there was ten thousand dollars in the bank, for me, which I might draw at any time. The stranger said it was all correct, and he thought Miss Irwin had received a liberal settlement and then he went away."

Here she paused again, and this time she pressed both hands upon her temples —remaining mute for many minutes.

The lawyer sat firm in his chair he bad not moved a muscle, and only the contraction of his brow told of the warfare within his heart and brain.

Again she went on, slowly and distinctly, but her voice was very low and soft: "You closed the door of our little home that night, Gilbert Thorne, upon the most wretched being God ever permitted to live. You went away from the spot which, in my foolish pride, I had thought was the dearest one on earth to you—without even looking back, and without a single tear. I watched you through the curtain from the window. I said surely, surely he will return he cannot, cannot mean it—never, never to see me again. I saw you reach the corncr I said, he will turn back now he cannot go the magnetism of my strong love will bring him hack again —he will comeback! You turned the corner and, like an arrow through my heart, came the conviction, that you were gone from me forever. I foil insensible upon the floor, and, many hours after, was found by a neighbor —sick in heart, and body, and mind—ready to die. "Now I come to your crimc—and my disgrace and sorrow. You thought you did a generous thing, perhaps, when you gave rue so large a sum as ten thousand dollars but what did I know of money? I scarcely knew the difference between a hundred and ten thousand dollars. I had always been cared for in that respect, and had never been taught to take care of myself, or to believe I should ever be thrown upon mv own resources. I will not dwell upon what followed. I loved you so sincerely and so devotedly that I had great difficulty in keeping my oath that I would not seek you—but I kept it. With returning health I sought new associations, and about this time learned that tho gin-cup would drown much misery. Well, I lived a gay life.— I had no one to love—no tie to bind mc to virtue or a higher aim. You took from mc everything but ten thousand dollars—jind that soon followed. Then came more misery, more degradation, more shame my beauty began to fade niv temper grew violent. Through my ignorance and improvidence, poverty came at a time when, having a little child, I found myself friendless and without the means of getting bread then death came, and took away my little boy then I was compelled to pawn my jewels to burv my child then iny appetite for drink grew more and more, and, one by one, everything went to the pawn-bro-ker's, until, after long weary 3-ears of sorrow. and sickness, and wretchedness, and unhappincss, and misery, and crime, I came to be the miserable outcast t? whom you threw the paltry coins this evening in the Park." "What!" interrupted the lawyer, "were vou the wretched being who crossed my path this evening, to whom I threw some change?" "Yes!" she replied, "I am the same.— Three picayunes and a dime, and I have laid it out at interest—where I think it will help mc to a better life. But don't interrupt mc till I have finished what I have to say. I am going away to a distant country to live—I cannot live here more and before I went, I determined to come and tell you plainly how well I have come to understand the great wrong which you have done mc, as well as io those who are sleeping under the snow, away over the river in 'Greenwood.' I understand it all! "Ah, Gilbert Thorne! I might truly have said to you, in the language of the wronged and gentle Tamar, This evil, in sending me atony, is greater than the other tluit thou didst unto me.' You took me a child, as it were, from the home of my dead parents. with no one in the wide world to love but you. You took from me everything I had in life, and left mc, more than ever before, unfit to take carc of myself. You thrust mc out into the world without a purpose or an end, or anything to cling to with passions of whose existence, but for you, I might never have known, wrecked at the first breaker of life—with appetites needing but the excuse of wretchedness and remorse to kindle into a neverdying flame—with not a friend, a hope, or anything to prize, with none to counsel, none to encourage, none to aid, none to advise, none to warn, none to befriend* and none to love—thus you thrust me out into tho world, and in the place of all these

you gave mc ten thousand dollars! "Would it not have been better, Gilbert Thorne, had you kept your ten thousand dollars, or my dead father's money, whichever it was, and havo kept me too. Would it not have been more like a man and a Christian—yes, better in the sight of God, had you turned my too loving heart to its best account, and permitted me to have lived out my little dream I should never hare troubled you or yours. The little

signed a great many documents. You told me to be calm, and not to let the stranger see me affected,

did

it would injure you

to. I

was

calm. I

signed every

NEW SERIES-VOL. X, NO. 34. GRAWFORDSYILLE, MONTGOMERY COUNTY, INDIANA, MARCH 12, 1859. WHOLE NUMBER 874.

child who sleeps now in Greenwood might have lived to some good purpose. I should have been contented always in my little home—oh, so happy! If I could have seen you only

once

a week, or even month, then

this great grief might not have come to me, and life might have been put to better purposes. But your selfish heart had other plans, and poor Jenny's life must be sacrificed to minister to your ambitious and worldly pride. But the day of reckoning will surely come, and you will yet feel that you might have atoned for the great first wrong which you did to Jenny Irwin, had you cherished, and protected, and turned to its highest account the true and earnest love which she bore to you. When that time comes, Gilbert Thorne, I wish you to remember this night, and to call to mind that I came here on this Christmas eve, the anniversary of 'onr first meeting, to have a final reckoning with you. I come not for money you have placed the last in my hands which I shall ever receive from you—three picayunes and a dime—I only come to you to say that I know it all now I knoto the source of the riches of Gilbert Thorne."

The lawyer's face grew dark. "But I come not to upbraid you I come not to expose you I come not to do you any harm I only come, ere.my departure, to bid you a kindly farewell, and to tell you that out of the great sorrow and wretchedness which has made roe the miserable outcast which I had comc to be, a holier, better spirit utters a full forgiveness for all the evil which 1 have received at your hands. "This is all I have to say, Gilbert Thorne all the reckoning I come to make, and now," slowly rising, "may the great God, through the intercession of Him whose nativity the ceremonies of this night commemorate, keep you and yours from all evil and harm, and not. visit the sins of the fathers upon the children."

As she said this she had risen to her full hight, and her upturned face was lit with a radiance which it had never known before. "Oh! Jenny, Jenny," groaned Gilbert Thorne, throwing himself at her feet, "for God's sake curse me. Do not say you forgive me. This is my punishment see it all now." "Gilbert Thome," she rejoined, and a deadly pallor overspread her features, "this is no time for inij)icty my carriage is waiting, .and I must go. I have said all that 1 have to say but kneel with 111c one little moment, that 1 may intercede for you."

Her voiec was singularly distinct, but very soft and low, and faint tremors ran through her frame. The strong man was bowed he knelt beside the outcast, and she, whom all men reviled, offered up for him a petition to the Throne of Mercy, which was taken up by angels, and borne to Him who suffercth not a sparrow to fall to the ground unheeded. The words of that prayer dwell ever in the memories of Gilbert Thome. Tears came back to him as when a child. The agony of the strong man, bowed, pen may not describe. In vain he pressed her to stay. In vain he told her that the house and all were hers that he would go forth, and leave her to her possessions that he would work as a galley slave, anything to make up for the wrong which he had done.

She only said, "Too late, too late.' All is prepared for my departure, and I must not, canuot stay. We part now, Gilbert Thorne, and let it be quickly over. Good bye!" And she took his hand in both of hers and pressing it once only to her heart, glided from the room. Once only she turned to look back as she threaded the dimly lighted hall once only she paused, and through the open library door she saw the lawyer, with clenched hand against his forehead, and heaving breast, standing in irresolution and agony, combating the impulse which bade him follow her wherever she went, and snatch her from a fate which was already half foreshadowed in his mind.

She opened the streQt, door, and as the cold wind rushed in, wrapping her frail form in its chill embrace, and moaning through the hall, it seemed to seek to drive her back again, raying "Go not forth: go not forth." A moment only she paused, while her shuddering frame had need of all its resolution to urge her forth into the desolate night. Perhaps, in that brief moment, standing in the half open door, looking out upon the falling snow, she had a lingering hope that a kindly hand might be laid upon her shoulder, drawing ber back from the fell purpose on which she was bent. But no protecting hand came at the last moment, to detain her no sympathetic voice to bid her stay. She closed the door, and forth into the desolate storm she went, out into the bitter night, amid the drifting snow and pitiless winds, leaving a blessing upon the threshold, which she was never to recross again, for him who had been the cause of all her ruin.

On the 27th of December, 185—, the daily papers of the great metropolis contained among their city items the following announcement: "Death noil IsTntrnuYci a*» Expo«cm.— Christmas rooming Officer Stylo*, while patrolling his b«t dsr-hrssV. found, pirtlr covered in

the snow, on the steps of a boose in Fifth ftvenne, tho body of an abandoned woman, commonly called Wild Jbuj but whose real nam* is supposed to have been Jenny Irwin. -i-

She was talc en to the dead-house, where an inquest was held—Verdict: 'Died from intemperance and exposure.'' She is supposed to have lost her way in the storm, while returning intoxicated from sorao revsl the previous night, and becoming bewilde ed and chilled, sought refnge on the step* where she was fonnd. Sub will arxiED is Pottm's Fi*ld."

Thus ended the life of Jenny Trwin.* v.

It boots not. now to rccord the secret satisfaction which mingled with the remorse of Gilbert Thorne, as, reading his morning paper over the rich breakfast service, he learned for the first time the fate of Jenny Irwin. The world thrives well with him honors and riches await his every step. They talk of making him a Judge, and if they do, as they doubtless will, it requires no great gift of prophecy to write his future life.

The ermine will fit him gracefully and well, to the icorld his judgments will be clear, and impartial, and fair, to the icorld his actions will be above rcproach, to the world he will be a constant church-goer and a devout Christian, to the world be will write a book upon some hackneyed subject of the law, which shall to the icorld appear very profound and learned, and then, after not many years, he will die.— The courts will be closcd out of respect for his memory for it is meet that Justice should pause to weep when a good man dies. His distinguished brethren of the bench will meet in solemn conclave, and pass "Resolutions" of condolence with his afflicted family, expressive also of their high sense of his public and private worth, and of the irremediable loss to the country. There will be a meeting of the Bar, over which a distinguished Judge "will be called to preside." That bright luminal-}- and celebrated advocate, David Little, Esq., will pronounce his stereotyped eulogy.— Counsellor Slasher will recall some happy reminiscence of the departed greatness, and will tell how "he knew bim intimately and well, and that he held it-among the proudest recollections of his life to have been the friend of such a man." The head of the great firm of Dragon, Bully & Dunn, the great special pleader, will "add his mite" to the occasion, and in a "few brief remarks" will move himself and his audience to tears and then the usual "Resolutions" will be passed, and the Bench and Bar will attend his funeral. The Church of the "Holy Money-bags" will be crowded. ^Sexton Oaldboy, in his "CiiMoiimry suit of column bluefc" will open the carriages of the great "lawgivers" who comc to pay their last tribute departed worth. lie will lead decrepid men—decrepid both iu mind and body— who still dole justice from the bench and venerable white wigs, who had long since retired, feeling that their age had gone beyond their Judgeship—through waves of crinoline, impregnable, save to his accustomed eye. The Rev. Dr. Silvcrcup will read the well-known service with peculiar unction, and in a short funeral sermon, will take good carc to speak in no unmeasured terms of praise of "the divine calling of those who sit in judgment," and of that noble profession of which the departed was so distinguished a member. Then a grand cavalcade of prancing horses, and sable plumes, and gay equipages, will drive with measured tread and in mournful array to "Greenwood."

Then a monument, with appropriate inscriptions and emblematic designs, will be erected to his memory. Perhaps Justice, with blinded cyc-s, holding the sword and scales, is not out of place, surmounting the tomb of the departed Judge! Perhaps the inscription,

IN MEMORY OF

THE HON. GILBERT THORNE, JUDGE OK THE CIRCUMLOCITION COURT. Died 18—. Et.—. .1 The learned and erudite Counsellor—the upright and impartial Judge the faithful and affectionate husband —the loving father and the devoted friend—distinguished alike for his public benefactions and his private charities! may answer well for the icorld's eye, and for the tcorhCs judgment but when the time conies, as it surely will, those of us who may, pcrchancc, be present, may find a different record written upon the docket of that great court whose judgments are eternal. Then you and I, dear reader, and all of uj, may see—guided by a light, of which we can form no present conception—how fallible are all human decisions, how blind all earthly opinions, and how unjust the judgments of the world! Then, standing at that great bar, where, written upon our conscience, the deeds of life are brought to light, each his own accuser and defender, you, and I, and Jenny Irwin, and Gilbert Thome, and all of us. will learn WHO STTTETH IN JUDGMENT

STATE FLECTIONS THIS SPRING.-—lour State elections will take place this Spring, via: New Hamshier, March 8 Connecticut, April 4 Rhode Island, April 6 and Virgioift, May 26. In each of these States a Governor is to be chosen, and al30 members to the next Congress.

C®" The trial of Sickl*3 take* place next Monday.

THE WASHINGTON TRAGEDY-AD-DITIONAL PARTICULARS —STATE* MENTS OF S. F. BUTTER WORT II

AND ROBERT J. WALKER. The telegraph has notified us off the appearance of statements of the Sickles affair, made by S. F. Buttcrworth and R. J. Walker. We quote some passages from those documents. Mr. Buttcrworth says:

On Sunday morning, about 1*2 o'clock M„ I received, at the house of a frined with whom I was staying, a note from the Hon. Mr. Sickles, saying: "JJearli.—Coinc to mc right away.'" which I showed to the Hon. R. J. Walker, and Senator Gwin, with whom I was then conversing. I asked the bearer of the note who was there, and said to my friends, "What can Mr. Sickle* desire?"

I immediately went to the house of Mr. Sickles. On my arrival, I found Mr. Sickles in his bed room, lying with his face on his pillow, overwhelmed with grief. Some time elapsed before I could obtain from him an account of the cause of his affliction.— He kept exclaiming, "I am a dishonored and ruined man, and can not look you in the face!" Finally he disclosed to inc the following circumstances: [Here follows the story, already familiar to the public, of the detection of Mrs. Sickles.]

I advised him to send his wife to her mother at New York—that, as it was now near the close of the session, it would excite no remark that during the time intervening between the close of this session and the commencement of tho next, he could go to Europe for a few months, and in the meantime a separation could be arranged between himself and his wife: that I presumed the affair was known to only one or two persons beyond mere surmise, and that for the honor of his little daughter and his wife's friends, this course should be pursued.

To this Mr. Sickles replied. "My friend, I would gladly pursue this course, but so abandoned, so reckless, have Key and my wife been, that all the negroes in that neighborhood, and I dare not say how many other persons, know all about the eircumHtanccs!"

I then left Mr. S. in his bedroom, and 011 going down stairs I met in the library Mr. George B. Woodridge, a Clerk of the House of Representatives. 1 said to him, "This is a terrible affair!" He then handed mc the written statement made by Mrs. Sic-kles of her guilt, which was written and signed, as I was then informed, by Mrs. S. in the presence ot' two females, and witnessed by tliem. I read the statement, laid it down 011 the table, and said, "I will go down town for awhile, and return here again," and requested Mr. Woodridge to aav so to Mr. S. if he should inquire for mc.

I immediately left the bouse,and walked to the Club on »Sixtcenili street, drank a glass of ale with a friend, and slowly returned to the house of Mr. Sickles.

O11 entering the 1/tbrary again, Mr. Woodridge informed inc that Key bad twice passed the house during the morning, and had a short time since waved his handkerchief three times as a signal.

While in conversation with Mr. Woodridge, r. Sickles camc into the Library and said that he had "seen the scoundrel making signals," and added, "My God, thi* is horrible!"

I said, "Mr, Sickles, you must be calm, and look at this matter square in the face.1 If there be a possibility of keeping the certain knowledge of this crime from the public, you must do nothing to destroy that: possibility. Vou may be mistaken in the belief that it is known to the whole city."

He instantly replied, "No, 110, my friend —I am not! It is already the town talk!" I then said, "If that be so, there is but one course left for you as a man of honor. You need no advice."

After a few moments' silence, Mr. S. said that be "was satisfied that Key had been in the Club House opposite," and what surprised him very much was that his wife strenuously denied this, though freely confessing her guilt. lie then walked into the hall, and said to me. "Come, go over with 111c to Stuart's room, in the Club House, and he may be able to inform me whether Key has a room there, and for what purpose he uses it." I assented, and walked out into the street, supposing that Mr. Sciklcs was following ine. 1 left the house for this sole purpose.

When I left Mr. S. in the hall I am satficd that he had no weapon on his person. He was without his overcoat. He said nothing to 111c about weapons, or the probability of encountering Key. 1 walked .-.lowly down the avenue on the south side of the corner, and as I was crossing the street saw Key advance a few steps toward inc. lie saluted me, saving, "(iood morning, Buttcrworth what a fine day we have!" I responded, and said, "Have you come from the Club?" He said, "1 have." I asked, "Is Stuart in his room?" He answered, Vc=, and quite unwell." I then said, "I am going up to sec him good morning!" and turned to leave him. A.s I did so I saw Mr. Sickles for the first time after leaving the hoti.-e, coming rapidly down sixteenth street the side next the square, and then near the corner.

"Don't sboot me!" Ho leaned for a momoment against a tree, when Sickles advanced upon him, exploded a cap, and then' fired the third time.

As Key was falling, Sickles frcqucntly exclaimcd, "You villain, you have dislioh-': orcd my house, and you must die!" lie uttered these words again while standing over Key with his revolver in his hand.

Mr. Walker days: On Sunday morning, after breakfast, I visited the Hon. William Gwin, and his. family, at his house, whe'r I met Mr. Samuel F. Buttcrworth. We were conversing when a servant came iu and handed-a noto to Mr. Buttcrworth, who then, after read' iug the note, remarked, "Sickles wishes tosec mc immediately," adding, "What cati' this mean?" and left at ODCC.

I remained, conversing most of the time with Dr. Gwin, when in the course of an hour or two, some one—a scrvaut, I think entered and said: "Mr. Sickles has just shot Barton Key dead." I asked what was the causc. when some one inquired of me: "Did you never hear the stories as to Mr. Key and Mrs. Sickles?" I replied "No," never having heard their names connected in any way.

I walked about thirty feet on my way to the Club, when I heard Mr. S. exclaim, in aloud voice, "Key, you pcoundnd, jou have dishonored my house you must die!"

I turned immediately, and saw Keythrust his hand in his vest or side-coat ct, and take a step in the direction of Mr. Sickles, and simultaneously I heard the discharge of a pistol. Key then rapidly advanced on Sickles, seized him with his left hand by the collar of his coa*, and seemed to make an effort to strike with something in his right hand, which I thon supposed to be a weapon. Mr. S. hacked into the middle of the street, when he sue-, cecded in extricating himself from Key's grasp, drew a pistol from his overcoat pocket, and presented it at Key, who retreated backward up Sixteenth street, toward the Club, and threw som?thing at Sickles.— Sickles followed, and when within ten feet, fired. I saw that Key was wounded. He staggered toward the Ridewalk, '•aying,

Mr. Sickles entered the room,

when, after saluting me warmly, he threw himself on a sofa, in an agony uf the deepest distress I have ever witnessed. His grief was so appalling, his exclamations so constant, of the dishouor Mr. Key had brought on his house and upon his wife and child, that I feared he would become insane, and thought of sending for a physician. I united, however, with B. in endeavoring to pacify him, but we did uot succeed for some lime.

TilE ITALIAN I'A TitlOTS We published, a few days ago, a letter from the Naples corresdondent of a London paper, giving an account, of the shipment of the J'.aron Poerioand a largo number of other political prisoners from that', country to the United States. These men were conccrned in the liberal movements of 1848, and upon the failure of the plans for giving liberty to Italy, were arrested, put in irons, and sent to soli'ary "dungeons 011 the islands off the const of Naples,-^ where they have ren.a'ncd ever since—ten long years. Among these exiles arc some through whose veins courses the best blood of Italy. They arc men uf education, and, before their estates were confiscated by the despot who now sits on the throne ot Naples, of wealth. Among them are many lawyers and priests of distinction.

Public attention was first drawn to theFO unhappy men by*a publication of Mr. Gladstone, an eminent member-of tho British Parliament. In Kngland Mr.Gladstone is a lory, and during the troubles of l$48, was strongly opposed 10 the revolutionary party. Three or four years ago he visited Naples, and the remembrance of his services in the causo of kingcraft in procured f»r him unusual favors in the Neapolitan dominions, which he used for the purpose ot visiting the State prisons of Naples and vicinity. Tory as he was, lie was horror stricken at what I10 saw andheardinthosc abodes of living death. Refined and cultivated men were found immured in dungeons cut out of the solid rock below the level of the sea, where tho excessive dampness soon brought on tho most horrible rheumatic pains, and where the clothes in a few weeks literally rottod off of the persons of the unhappy victims of tyranny, The case of Pocrio peculiarly excited Mr. Gladstone'.- commiseration.— Iicscended from one of the noblest Itaiian families—educated, wealthy, refined— he had taken jTartiu the struggle of 18-1H, and bad accepted a position in the cabinet of King Ferdinand the Second. Ho was an earliest and a lofty patriot, without a particle uf demagoguory in his composition. He did not ask for a republic, but merely that some limit should be placed mpon the power of the King. This man 1 Mr. Gladstone found loaded with irons in one of the horrible dungeons of Naples,

cut off from all communication with his family and the world, and fed on black bread and water: and there were many more whose fate was equally horrible.

I"pon his return to .Kngland Mr. Gladstone published a pamphlet givinga simple statement of what he had witne-ised with his own eyes during his visit to Naples and of c.jiir-'c such an exposition of cruclvat once aroused the civilized world.— Forced by public sentiment Kngland addressed diplomatic notes to Naples, asking that the misries of these men should bo alleviated—thai it was contrary to the sentiment of the civilized world thus to treat men whose offenses were merely political. France joined in these remonstrances, but the King of Naples very-jdainly intimated to th'-m that they •.ytu interfering in matters that did not concern them. Kngland and France rejoined, threa:-n,ng to eenso to hold diplomatic r«j Jar J-»:ii» wit!i Naples unless their demands wue complo- with. They were not. -md France an Kngland

had* not the eirage to enforce their threats. At lentrth, these men have been released from their prisons and packed off to the I'nitcd Stales, exiles from their native land, for no other crime than that of loving liberty better than slavery. Upon lauding 011 our shores they are to receive a sum equal to about fifty dollar/-, and then left to shift for themselves. They are now on their way hither, and we are sure that the sympathies of the whole American people,.. will be extended to them—involuntary exilos from the land of their birth—stranger* to the language and custom* of thoso amonir whom they come after an isolation of ten years from Uie whole outer world— separated from their families and their friends. Surely if there is a single scene which can at once melt, the human heart to pity and at the same time steel it to a thirst

for"vengeance,

it will be that witnessed at

the landing, in New York, of the victim* of Neapolitan despotism.—Xcip Allxiny Lctlgcr.

t&~ Bayard Taylor says the hol-hou-1.:t of the Czarc, in latitude liO North, conta the finest collection of trop eal plants Europe. I'aim trees arc sixty feet in hei^lit-, and there arc hank* of sp'nd 1 orchard* The lyi'-hvi-*« mil* nnd hill in IMtgrli.