Here is your Illustration of the week. The text to be printed on the page says it all:
Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding.
"When I reflect, my dear cousin, on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. But now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch."
I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer.
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