ABSTRACT
The melancholy catastrophe on which the following tale is founded, occurred but a few years since, in the sequestered purlieus of Saint Mary-Axe. 1 That gentle Jewess, Ruth Isaacson, 2 who is my unfortunate heroine, and who, as it seems from the record, was the interesting and only child of a tinker, actually died in the manner I have represented, amid the embowering shades of Hampstead. It is proper, however, to observe, that the latter part of my poem only is historical.
