NIGHT THOUGHTS.

The sun had quite sunk, and the long twilight began.

There was not a fragment of cloud in all the clear, calm sky—there was a stillness, holy, soul-elevating on the earth—and the brightness of the Father’s glory seemed alone waiting the frail child of earth, as she stood there to offer life and all its blessedness and joy, to a higher love, a loftier and purer faith.

They bound her to the stake; the flames—the hot and angry flames pressed closely on her lovely form, whichhehad but now clasped to his breaking heart. And when the stars came out in heaven, and a horrible loneliness crept over that deserted place—where a dense black cloud ascended, and the flames had died away, there was another saint in heaven worthy to rest in Abraham’s bosom!

There was silence that night in Myrrah’s earthly home—an old man slept upon the couch her fairy form had ofttimes pressed—slept, but he dreamed not. His eyes were closed—she was not there to watch his quiet slumber—there was a sign of such deep peace laid upon his brow as Myrrah never saw there; Raguel’s heart had ceased its pulsations—the father was sleeping the eternal sleep!

The calmness and the smiles which the amazed friends beheld in him as he came from that last parting with his child, were but the presage of the everlasting calmness, the unfading smile, for the old man’s spirit had sought the distant land ere another morning dawned—called home by the merciful and loving Father of the Gentile and the Jew.

And Othniel again became a wanderer. Not a murderer, for Myrrah’s parting counsel and entreaty had saved him from blood-guiltiness—and the life of Orien Fez was never required athishands. But Othniel died young, when his heart had learned to say, “God is merciful—His will is best,” and the sands of the desert were his resting-place.

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

———

BY GIFTIE.

———

Darknessis on the wave,The night wind hummeth low,And through the soft bright air the gleamsOf moonlight come and go,And all is hushed to restUpon Sleep’s quiet breast,All save the human heart, that sighing waketh still —The heart, that never sleeping —Its lonely vigil keeping —Findeth still naught on earth its depths to fill.Thou art like Sleep, oh, Night!Thou hast a thrilling power,To awe, e’en with thy loveliest things,The heart in this still hour.Thou bringest up the past —All bright things we have lost —The dead whom we have loved look on us from the skies,Yet naught of fear or wo,That cloud man’s life below,Is in the gaze of their calm spiritual eyes.Ay—faces of the deadLook downward from the sky.They wear the same loved look and mienThey wore in days gone by,Yet something dimly there.Though cheek and brow be fair,Says chillingly that human love hath passed away.They care for us no more —Those dwellers on the shoreWhere night is lost in heaven’s effulgent day.Still—all is still around;I hear the sound of streams,That through the long grass singing flowBeneath the starlight beamsThus let my soul repose,Serene ’mid earthly woes,Till death shall come and bid its longings cease,Till I quench this weary thirst,Where immortal fountains burst,And heavenly voices welcome me to peace.

Darknessis on the wave,

The night wind hummeth low,

And through the soft bright air the gleams

Of moonlight come and go,

And all is hushed to rest

Upon Sleep’s quiet breast,

All save the human heart, that sighing waketh still —

The heart, that never sleeping —

Its lonely vigil keeping —

Findeth still naught on earth its depths to fill.

Thou art like Sleep, oh, Night!Thou hast a thrilling power,To awe, e’en with thy loveliest things,The heart in this still hour.Thou bringest up the past —All bright things we have lost —The dead whom we have loved look on us from the skies,Yet naught of fear or wo,That cloud man’s life below,Is in the gaze of their calm spiritual eyes.

Thou art like Sleep, oh, Night!

Thou hast a thrilling power,

To awe, e’en with thy loveliest things,

The heart in this still hour.

Thou bringest up the past —

All bright things we have lost —

The dead whom we have loved look on us from the skies,

Yet naught of fear or wo,

That cloud man’s life below,

Is in the gaze of their calm spiritual eyes.

Ay—faces of the deadLook downward from the sky.They wear the same loved look and mienThey wore in days gone by,Yet something dimly there.Though cheek and brow be fair,Says chillingly that human love hath passed away.They care for us no more —Those dwellers on the shoreWhere night is lost in heaven’s effulgent day.

Ay—faces of the dead

Look downward from the sky.

They wear the same loved look and mien

They wore in days gone by,

Yet something dimly there.

Though cheek and brow be fair,

Says chillingly that human love hath passed away.

They care for us no more —

Those dwellers on the shore

Where night is lost in heaven’s effulgent day.

Still—all is still around;I hear the sound of streams,That through the long grass singing flowBeneath the starlight beamsThus let my soul repose,Serene ’mid earthly woes,Till death shall come and bid its longings cease,Till I quench this weary thirst,Where immortal fountains burst,And heavenly voices welcome me to peace.

Still—all is still around;

I hear the sound of streams,

That through the long grass singing flow

Beneath the starlight beams

Thus let my soul repose,

Serene ’mid earthly woes,

Till death shall come and bid its longings cease,

Till I quench this weary thirst,

Where immortal fountains burst,

And heavenly voices welcome me to peace.

BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO.

———

BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

———

PALO ALTO.

Thearmy lay in quiet rest: for many a weary leagueHad we marched in battle order, combating with fatigue;But when Point Isabel arose between us and the sun,And the evening gun exploded, we felt our toil was done,And we laid us down in silence, and we slept without alarm,Each soldier resting on the ground, with his head across his arm.But when the gray of morning made twilight in the east,Like shadows, from the prairie arose both man and beast;And the soldiers stretched their arms, and the steeds with neigh and stamp,With the rattling rolling reveillé put motion in the camp;And the sunrise-gun boomed loudly, when, as its sound declined,A dull, funereal response rolled heavily down the wind.The soldiers paused and listened, each with questions in his eyes,As round and red the tropic sun walked, Mars-like, up the skies; —It was no echo; never yet made echo sound like that,For echo lives in the mountain glen, and not on the prairie flat:We clasped our muskets closer as we hurried to parade,Our beating hearts replying to the distant cannonade.Not a word had yet been spoken, though, still, the cumbrous soundCame rolling, like a tumbril, over the damp and dewy ground;But beetling brows and heaving breasts and half-suspended sighsSpoke the anger of the passionate hearts whose lightning lit our eyes;Then a murmur rose along our ranks no discipline could drown,And the burthen of the chorus was the syllables—“Fort Brown!”Just then our gallant general, on his favorite white horse,Rode slowly and serenely, like a father, through his force;But as the ranks “presented arms,” another murmur ran —“God bless old Rough and Ready,” loud and deep, from man to man.The brave old heart looked gratified, but his eyes sunk slowly down,For he thought of his companions who were battling at Fort Brown.But scarcely had they fallen, when the air became so stillWe heard the campanero[2]cry a league off, on the hill.The old man’s gray eyes glistened, and his horse reversed his ears,And stamped his hoofs, and neighed aloud, as laughing at our fears:We stood like statues, listening, whenTaylormade a sign,AndWalkerleft his Rangers, riding quickly down the line.That night the Texan hero was missed by all our men;But we smiled, for well we knew that he soon would come again,For a braver, or a better, or a more chivalrous knightNever put his lance in rest in the days when might was right;And he had the fox’s cunning, and the eagle’s restless eye,With his courage, to see danger, and that danger to defy.Two days passed by, and hour by hour the army moved, with gloomOn heart and soul, as though each man stood gazing on his tomb;But all at once a sudden cry!—our hearts sprung, like a steedWho sees the flash and hears the gun, then headlong ploughs the mead —Then Walker’s name—another shout!—and each one, with contentIn breast and brain, accoutred, rushed delighted from his tent.We all knew what was coming, when at the reveillé,We saw the Texan head his men, and heard the laugh ofMay,For all had learned the news, and knew, that ere two suns went downOur army would be rolling, like a tempest, on Fort Brown;And that the foe in thousands were gathering in our way —Human panthers, couched in silence, expectant of their prey.At last we heard the order, and along the grassy plainOur army, like a sparkling snake, uncoiled its glittering train,And silently, but earnestly, we marched from dawn till night,And then laid down in silence till the breaking of the light:No fires disturbed the darkness, no sound betrayed our camp,Save, at intervals the countersign, with the sentinel’s measured tramp.Next morning we pursued our march: it was a sultry day;The sunlight flickered like a flame along our sandy way;But no one lingered, for we knew our foemen were before,And, like blood-hounds howling on the scent, we trailed the distant gore;For we thought of our associates, and the thought had power to drownAll human feelings, for we heard the cannon at Fort Brown.For twelve miles unmolested had we marched, when brazen noonBeheld the enemy deploy along the green lagoon:Our hearts beat high, for we were few, and scarcely one beforeHad fleshed his sword in battle, or had heard the cannon’s roar;But Lexington and Concord and Bunker-Hill beheldJust such recruits victorious in the iron days of old.And now the word was passed—to halt, and each, in turn, was seenTo stoop beside the limpid lake and fill his hot canteen;And then the order came to march; and now our foemen layA musket shot before us, a barrier in our way,When, like a Paladin of old,Blake, brave as brave could be,Sprung from the lines, and spurred his steed along the grassy lea.We saw him gallop toward the foe, and our passions thrilled us, whenWe viewed him ride along their lines and coolly count their men,And turn and gallop backward, and grasp our general’s hand,Then silently resume his place, and head his little band:We paused, when, rushing, roaring, whirling, whistling, wildly by,Came the iron rain of Battle, while his thunder shook the sky.Like a cloud the smoke closed round, and like steeds to frenzy lashedThe black eyes of our batteries their deadly fury flashed:We were maniacs; we were furies; we were fiends, not mortal men,And each one fought as if his arm contained the strength of ten;But the smoke grew denser round us, for, like a funeral pyre,The prairie blazed before our eyes—a sea of surging fire.It was a fearful sight, but we fought for life and fame,And incessantly and dauntlessly we answered flame with flame,When, breaking from the enemy’s left, a thousand lancers dashed,A human avalanche, on us; but our batteries fiercely flashed,And we drove them back like deer; but our brains went round and round,WhenRingold, staggering on his steed, fell, dying, to the ground!ButRidgelytook the hero’s place, and, wheeling to the right,Plunged with his light artillery in the thickest of the fight;AndDuncan, wheeling to the left, poured in his shot like rain,While our never-ceasing muskets, like a hurricane swept the plain.One moment, like a herd of wolves, they stood, then broke and fled,As our army dashed in swift pursuit o’er the dying and the dead!But the sun was setting fast, and darkness slowly fell,Like a pall, above the fallen who had fought so long and well;And we heard our leader’s summons, and our trumpets, call us back,To refreshment and repose in our lonely bivouac;And we laid us down in silence, surrounded by the slain,And slept the sleep of conquerors on Palo Alto’s plain.

Thearmy lay in quiet rest: for many a weary league

Had we marched in battle order, combating with fatigue;

But when Point Isabel arose between us and the sun,

And the evening gun exploded, we felt our toil was done,

And we laid us down in silence, and we slept without alarm,

Each soldier resting on the ground, with his head across his arm.

But when the gray of morning made twilight in the east,Like shadows, from the prairie arose both man and beast;And the soldiers stretched their arms, and the steeds with neigh and stamp,With the rattling rolling reveillé put motion in the camp;And the sunrise-gun boomed loudly, when, as its sound declined,A dull, funereal response rolled heavily down the wind.

But when the gray of morning made twilight in the east,

Like shadows, from the prairie arose both man and beast;

And the soldiers stretched their arms, and the steeds with neigh and stamp,

With the rattling rolling reveillé put motion in the camp;

And the sunrise-gun boomed loudly, when, as its sound declined,

A dull, funereal response rolled heavily down the wind.

The soldiers paused and listened, each with questions in his eyes,As round and red the tropic sun walked, Mars-like, up the skies; —It was no echo; never yet made echo sound like that,For echo lives in the mountain glen, and not on the prairie flat:We clasped our muskets closer as we hurried to parade,Our beating hearts replying to the distant cannonade.

The soldiers paused and listened, each with questions in his eyes,

As round and red the tropic sun walked, Mars-like, up the skies; —

It was no echo; never yet made echo sound like that,

For echo lives in the mountain glen, and not on the prairie flat:

We clasped our muskets closer as we hurried to parade,

Our beating hearts replying to the distant cannonade.

Not a word had yet been spoken, though, still, the cumbrous soundCame rolling, like a tumbril, over the damp and dewy ground;But beetling brows and heaving breasts and half-suspended sighsSpoke the anger of the passionate hearts whose lightning lit our eyes;Then a murmur rose along our ranks no discipline could drown,And the burthen of the chorus was the syllables—“Fort Brown!”

Not a word had yet been spoken, though, still, the cumbrous sound

Came rolling, like a tumbril, over the damp and dewy ground;

But beetling brows and heaving breasts and half-suspended sighs

Spoke the anger of the passionate hearts whose lightning lit our eyes;

Then a murmur rose along our ranks no discipline could drown,

And the burthen of the chorus was the syllables—“Fort Brown!”

Just then our gallant general, on his favorite white horse,Rode slowly and serenely, like a father, through his force;But as the ranks “presented arms,” another murmur ran —“God bless old Rough and Ready,” loud and deep, from man to man.The brave old heart looked gratified, but his eyes sunk slowly down,For he thought of his companions who were battling at Fort Brown.

Just then our gallant general, on his favorite white horse,

Rode slowly and serenely, like a father, through his force;

But as the ranks “presented arms,” another murmur ran —

“God bless old Rough and Ready,” loud and deep, from man to man.

The brave old heart looked gratified, but his eyes sunk slowly down,

For he thought of his companions who were battling at Fort Brown.

But scarcely had they fallen, when the air became so stillWe heard the campanero[2]cry a league off, on the hill.The old man’s gray eyes glistened, and his horse reversed his ears,And stamped his hoofs, and neighed aloud, as laughing at our fears:We stood like statues, listening, whenTaylormade a sign,AndWalkerleft his Rangers, riding quickly down the line.

But scarcely had they fallen, when the air became so still

We heard the campanero[2]cry a league off, on the hill.

The old man’s gray eyes glistened, and his horse reversed his ears,

And stamped his hoofs, and neighed aloud, as laughing at our fears:

We stood like statues, listening, whenTaylormade a sign,

AndWalkerleft his Rangers, riding quickly down the line.

That night the Texan hero was missed by all our men;But we smiled, for well we knew that he soon would come again,For a braver, or a better, or a more chivalrous knightNever put his lance in rest in the days when might was right;And he had the fox’s cunning, and the eagle’s restless eye,With his courage, to see danger, and that danger to defy.

That night the Texan hero was missed by all our men;

But we smiled, for well we knew that he soon would come again,

For a braver, or a better, or a more chivalrous knight

Never put his lance in rest in the days when might was right;

And he had the fox’s cunning, and the eagle’s restless eye,

With his courage, to see danger, and that danger to defy.

Two days passed by, and hour by hour the army moved, with gloomOn heart and soul, as though each man stood gazing on his tomb;But all at once a sudden cry!—our hearts sprung, like a steedWho sees the flash and hears the gun, then headlong ploughs the mead —Then Walker’s name—another shout!—and each one, with contentIn breast and brain, accoutred, rushed delighted from his tent.

Two days passed by, and hour by hour the army moved, with gloom

On heart and soul, as though each man stood gazing on his tomb;

But all at once a sudden cry!—our hearts sprung, like a steed

Who sees the flash and hears the gun, then headlong ploughs the mead —

Then Walker’s name—another shout!—and each one, with content

In breast and brain, accoutred, rushed delighted from his tent.

We all knew what was coming, when at the reveillé,We saw the Texan head his men, and heard the laugh ofMay,For all had learned the news, and knew, that ere two suns went downOur army would be rolling, like a tempest, on Fort Brown;And that the foe in thousands were gathering in our way —Human panthers, couched in silence, expectant of their prey.

We all knew what was coming, when at the reveillé,

We saw the Texan head his men, and heard the laugh ofMay,

For all had learned the news, and knew, that ere two suns went down

Our army would be rolling, like a tempest, on Fort Brown;

And that the foe in thousands were gathering in our way —

Human panthers, couched in silence, expectant of their prey.

At last we heard the order, and along the grassy plainOur army, like a sparkling snake, uncoiled its glittering train,And silently, but earnestly, we marched from dawn till night,And then laid down in silence till the breaking of the light:No fires disturbed the darkness, no sound betrayed our camp,Save, at intervals the countersign, with the sentinel’s measured tramp.

At last we heard the order, and along the grassy plain

Our army, like a sparkling snake, uncoiled its glittering train,

And silently, but earnestly, we marched from dawn till night,

And then laid down in silence till the breaking of the light:

No fires disturbed the darkness, no sound betrayed our camp,

Save, at intervals the countersign, with the sentinel’s measured tramp.

Next morning we pursued our march: it was a sultry day;The sunlight flickered like a flame along our sandy way;But no one lingered, for we knew our foemen were before,And, like blood-hounds howling on the scent, we trailed the distant gore;For we thought of our associates, and the thought had power to drownAll human feelings, for we heard the cannon at Fort Brown.

Next morning we pursued our march: it was a sultry day;

The sunlight flickered like a flame along our sandy way;

But no one lingered, for we knew our foemen were before,

And, like blood-hounds howling on the scent, we trailed the distant gore;

For we thought of our associates, and the thought had power to drown

All human feelings, for we heard the cannon at Fort Brown.

For twelve miles unmolested had we marched, when brazen noonBeheld the enemy deploy along the green lagoon:Our hearts beat high, for we were few, and scarcely one beforeHad fleshed his sword in battle, or had heard the cannon’s roar;But Lexington and Concord and Bunker-Hill beheldJust such recruits victorious in the iron days of old.

For twelve miles unmolested had we marched, when brazen noon

Beheld the enemy deploy along the green lagoon:

Our hearts beat high, for we were few, and scarcely one before

Had fleshed his sword in battle, or had heard the cannon’s roar;

But Lexington and Concord and Bunker-Hill beheld

Just such recruits victorious in the iron days of old.

And now the word was passed—to halt, and each, in turn, was seenTo stoop beside the limpid lake and fill his hot canteen;And then the order came to march; and now our foemen layA musket shot before us, a barrier in our way,When, like a Paladin of old,Blake, brave as brave could be,Sprung from the lines, and spurred his steed along the grassy lea.

And now the word was passed—to halt, and each, in turn, was seen

To stoop beside the limpid lake and fill his hot canteen;

And then the order came to march; and now our foemen lay

A musket shot before us, a barrier in our way,

When, like a Paladin of old,Blake, brave as brave could be,

Sprung from the lines, and spurred his steed along the grassy lea.

We saw him gallop toward the foe, and our passions thrilled us, whenWe viewed him ride along their lines and coolly count their men,And turn and gallop backward, and grasp our general’s hand,Then silently resume his place, and head his little band:We paused, when, rushing, roaring, whirling, whistling, wildly by,Came the iron rain of Battle, while his thunder shook the sky.

We saw him gallop toward the foe, and our passions thrilled us, when

We viewed him ride along their lines and coolly count their men,

And turn and gallop backward, and grasp our general’s hand,

Then silently resume his place, and head his little band:

We paused, when, rushing, roaring, whirling, whistling, wildly by,

Came the iron rain of Battle, while his thunder shook the sky.

Like a cloud the smoke closed round, and like steeds to frenzy lashedThe black eyes of our batteries their deadly fury flashed:We were maniacs; we were furies; we were fiends, not mortal men,And each one fought as if his arm contained the strength of ten;But the smoke grew denser round us, for, like a funeral pyre,The prairie blazed before our eyes—a sea of surging fire.

Like a cloud the smoke closed round, and like steeds to frenzy lashed

The black eyes of our batteries their deadly fury flashed:

We were maniacs; we were furies; we were fiends, not mortal men,

And each one fought as if his arm contained the strength of ten;

But the smoke grew denser round us, for, like a funeral pyre,

The prairie blazed before our eyes—a sea of surging fire.

It was a fearful sight, but we fought for life and fame,And incessantly and dauntlessly we answered flame with flame,When, breaking from the enemy’s left, a thousand lancers dashed,A human avalanche, on us; but our batteries fiercely flashed,And we drove them back like deer; but our brains went round and round,WhenRingold, staggering on his steed, fell, dying, to the ground!

It was a fearful sight, but we fought for life and fame,

And incessantly and dauntlessly we answered flame with flame,

When, breaking from the enemy’s left, a thousand lancers dashed,

A human avalanche, on us; but our batteries fiercely flashed,

And we drove them back like deer; but our brains went round and round,

WhenRingold, staggering on his steed, fell, dying, to the ground!

ButRidgelytook the hero’s place, and, wheeling to the right,Plunged with his light artillery in the thickest of the fight;AndDuncan, wheeling to the left, poured in his shot like rain,While our never-ceasing muskets, like a hurricane swept the plain.One moment, like a herd of wolves, they stood, then broke and fled,As our army dashed in swift pursuit o’er the dying and the dead!

ButRidgelytook the hero’s place, and, wheeling to the right,

Plunged with his light artillery in the thickest of the fight;

AndDuncan, wheeling to the left, poured in his shot like rain,

While our never-ceasing muskets, like a hurricane swept the plain.

One moment, like a herd of wolves, they stood, then broke and fled,

As our army dashed in swift pursuit o’er the dying and the dead!

But the sun was setting fast, and darkness slowly fell,Like a pall, above the fallen who had fought so long and well;And we heard our leader’s summons, and our trumpets, call us back,To refreshment and repose in our lonely bivouac;And we laid us down in silence, surrounded by the slain,And slept the sleep of conquerors on Palo Alto’s plain.

But the sun was setting fast, and darkness slowly fell,

Like a pall, above the fallen who had fought so long and well;

And we heard our leader’s summons, and our trumpets, call us back,

To refreshment and repose in our lonely bivouac;

And we laid us down in silence, surrounded by the slain,

And slept the sleep of conquerors on Palo Alto’s plain.

[2]TheCampanero, a Mexican bird: so called from its cry, which resembles the clang of a bell.

[2]

TheCampanero, a Mexican bird: so called from its cry, which resembles the clang of a bell.

THE WILKINSONS.

A TRUE STORY

———

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

———

Morethan fifty years ago, I was wont to sit at the feet of a lady, then advancing considerably in years, and to listen to her narrative of Indian wars and French aggressions, until it seemed to me, on closing my eyes, that I could call before me troops of hostile aborigines dancing, by the light of a burning dwelling, around prostrate prisoners, and celebrating their victory with tortures upon the victims of their vengeance. Or I could discern in the distance the fleets or troops of the French king, rushing upon some weakly defended colonial settlement, and sweeping away the inhabitants, as if the full reward of a Frenchman’s toil was an Englishman’s blood. I cannot say that I had any very correct view of the geographical limits where such scenes were enacted; nor am I able now to say that my conceptions of the French or Indian character were made wholly faultless by the exactness of the lady’s account. ’Tis marvelous how the minds of some persons become warped by early prejudices orfears, but my instructive female friend, while she was no exception to the general rule, did not, I imagine, carry her prejudices much beyond those of persons who would probably sneer at, if not condemn her, should I tell the tales as she narrated them to me. But I cannot so tell them. Often indeed have I tried to recall the story, to give it shape and continuity, but in vain; I can only recollect some vague fragments of different tales, which she deemed history, and bring back the impression which her narrative caused upon my mind. It is certainly a sort of pleasure thus to fish in pools whither are gathered the currents of other years, and seek to drag to the shore, for present use, what has so long remained undisturbed beneath the waters. It is pleasant but profitless, for I cannot succeed; and even if I could, is it likely that what was so calculated to amuse me as a child, would be profitable and pleasant with half a century’s experience on my head since they were made its tenants?

An opportunity occurred last summer to refresh my memory, while I was on a visit to that part of the country in which I heard the stories. The good old woman had survived those who started in life with her, had buried the companions of her children, and witnessed indeed the sepulture, or mourned the death of most of the children of those who had been her contemporaries; but she survived, and when I presented myself before her she was knitting what appeared to be the mate of the same stocking upon which she was engaged two generations back. Time had done no more for her locks than he had for mine, and so we met on conditions as newly equal as were those which distinguished our circumstances fifty years before. After some conversation, by which I supplied, at her request, information that served as some required links to the chain of my own history, I ventured to ask for a repetition of one or two of those stories which were wont, in olden times, to keep my little feet from the ice, and my tender hands from the snow-balls.

“Why, don’t you remember them?” said she.

“Not the narrative, but I distinctly recall some incidents, and the general effect.”

“But you must remember them, for Mr. Wilmer’s daughter has frequently read to me some of your stories, in which I recognised my own share in the composition.”

“It may be so. I may have drawn upon memory instead of imagination, and thus have been retailing your supplies instead of dealing in my own wares. And to say the truth, Aunt Sarah, I should be very happy now to owe you credit for a whole story.”

“Alas! I have found so few who would listen to the whole of any story, that I have forgotten most that I ever knew, and as books have been greatly multiplied of late, neither I nor those who would have been my auditors have any thing to regret.”

“Cannot you recall the principal events in the account which you gave me of the Wilkinson family?”

“If you will have patience with my feeble voice, and assist with your own recollection my even more feeble memory, I will attempt that story, especially as certain events have served to keep a portion of it, at least, fresh in my mind, and especially as the act of narrating it will call back to my memory the times when I hired you to forbear outdoor sports, too rude, in the weather too inclement for your tender age. I have always considered that Providence had much to do with the affairs of

‘THE WILKINSON FAMILY.’ ”

The persons concerned in the narrative which I have to repeat, are now nearly all departed. Some sleep beneath the sod in the rear of the meeting-house on yonder hill, and some are of the number of those who wait until the sea shall give up its dead, and like the informant of Job I may almost say, “that I only have escaped to tell.”

One day the stage which passed between Plymouth and Boston, at stated periods, and rarely varying in its time of passing any particular point more than two or three hours, (the whole distance, you know, is nowperformed in one hour and a half by rail-road.) One day the stage stopped at the small house of Mrs. Wendall, near Stony Brook, and a young, well-dressed lady was seen to alight, with an infant, and enter the house. A large trunk was deposited, and the stage passed on. It was soon known throughout the village that a lady with whom Mrs. Wendall had formed an acquaintance at a boarding-house in Boston, had come to spend some time with her. Curiosity and courtesy induced several persons to call on Mrs. W. and her new guest, though little was seen of the latter, excepting on Sunday, when she was early at meeting, and devout in her deportment. She was handsome certainly, and much more refined in her manners than most of our people. She declined entering into much social intercourse, assigning as a reason that she was in delicate health, and censure was therefore busy with her name, and the conduct of Mrs. W. for receiving and entertaining her. But an application having been made, about this time, to the clergyman to admit her to membership in the church, certain papers were exhibitedto him, and his sanction of her wish, and his introducing her to his family, at once settled the question of propriety. To a few leading questions, which some of her more inquisitive female neighbors chose to put, in what they denominated a spirit of Christian feeling, and which they hoped would be answered with Christian candor, the lady gave no definite answer, but contented herself and quieted the guests with the remark, that whatever she had to say of herself she would make known without interrogation, and whenever she declined an answer to such questions as had been put, it would be because such an answer involved the secrets of other persons.

This mode of treating the inquisitive was effective if not satisfactory, and as Mrs. Bertrand did not thrust herself upon any one, and as both the clergyman and Mrs. W. were satisfied with the lady, things were allowed to remain. It was supposed that Mrs. Wendall, in her semi-annual visits to Boston, received some money for Mrs. Bertrand. And at the death of Mrs. Wendall, Mrs. B. entered upon the possession of her neat house, and became the head of a little family, consisting of herself, her daughter Amelia, and one female in the character of assistant.

The education of Amelia was conducted by her mother—we had then no school in whicheducationcould be acquired—and the home lessons, by precept and example, which Mrs. B. gave to her daughter were effective in the formation of one of the most lovely characters that ever blessed our neighborhood. The melancholy, fixed and sometimes communicative, of the mother had an effect upon the daughter. Not indeed to infuse into her moral character any morbid sensibility, but to check the exuberance of youthful feeling, and to chasten and direct a girlish fancy. There was religion, too, in all her thoughts—religion lying at the foundation of her character—religion operating upon all her plans and directing all their execution. There was no time when she seemed without this power, no time when she came into its possession. She lived in the atmosphere of her mother; she was from the cradle a child of prayer, and she participated in thousands of acts of goodness and plans of beneficence, of which none but herself and mother knew the source, but which made the heart of the afflicted beat with joy.

While such goodness blessed the dwelling of Mrs. Bertrand, it was diffused through the neighborhood.

I dwell on these things because I have always thought that the loveliness of Mrs. B.’s little family circle, though peculiar, undoubtedly, was imitable, and that the same education in the parent, and the same care for the child, would result in similar excellencies. But somehow, I never could make my views understood—and people around seemed to be impressed with the idea that what they admired in the mother and daughter was some special endowment by Providence, not attainable by any others. It is in this matter pretty much as it was with the minister’s garden—all admired its beauty, and each was willing to share in the excellence of its produce, but we had few who were willing to think that its beauty and usefulness resulted from his culture, and that with the same care their own weedy patch might have become rich in beauty and profitable in fruits.

Such, however, was the chastened excellence of Mrs. Bertrand’s character, such the beauty of her life, I might add, indeed, of her person, and such the sweetness of disposition and almost angelic temper and devotion of Amelia, that perhaps it was not strange that many should regard their domestic and social virtues and their Christian graces as inimitable. Oh, how often have I sat down in my chamber and resolved, with God’s blessing, to copy into my heart some of the heavenly lessons of their lives, and to exhibit in my conduct and conversation something of the lesser graces of this mother and her daughter. Alas! while I feel much benefit in myself from the examples and excellence with which I was occasionally associated, I have little hope that I ever made others sensible of my efforts.

It is certain that our whole town felt and acknowledged the benefit of Mrs. Bertrand’s residence among us; and, strange as it may appear, I do not remember that any envious tongues were employed to diminish the credit of her efforts, or to lessen her power of usefulness. It was a beautiful homage to female excellence which our neighborhood paid to the virtues of mother and daughter, and I have often thought that some credit was due to us all for thus appreciating what was so truly beautiful, without allowing the disparity between us and them to excite envy. Perhaps, however, it was the vast difference between us that served to keep down jealousy.

During a violent gale that followed the vernal equinox, a vessel coming, I think, from Havana, and bound for Boston, was wrecked on one of the outer capes of the bay. She strode at some distance from the shore; and went to pieces in the gale. It was believed that all on board had perished as several dead bodies washed ashore. One person, however, was taken up lashed to a spar; he exhibited some evidence of remaining vitality, and was put into a vessel to be conveyed to Plymouth, but the tide and wind favored the landing at this end of the bay, and he was conveyed toa solitary house on the point of land at the mouth of the river. There medical men ascertained that an arm was broken, and some injury sustained in one of the sufferer’s legs. Surgical aid was given, and careful nursing was required. This was most difficult to procure—money was to be had, for the pockets of the sufferer were filled with gold coin, and subsequently portions of the ceiling of the ship’s cabin which washed ashore, were found to be studded with guineas, driven into the boards that they might drift ashore. As the suffering man was found to have similar coin with him, it was supposed that these waifs were his also.

Mrs. Bertrand was at the time quite too unwell to visit the Nook, as the place was called, where the sick man lay—so Amelia went with such appliances for the sick chamber as her mother could send, and afterward she obtained permission of her mother to remain and assist one of the other persons of the village to take care of the sick man, that the family whose rooms he occupied, might not be drawn from their necessary labor.

The shipwrecked person seemed to be about forty years of age; it was difficult to judge of his person, but his face and head were attractive. He was rather patient than resigned; and if he forbore to complain of his suffering, it was evident that the pride of a man habitually trusting to himself, rather than the Christian submitting to Providence, restrained his tongue.

There was nothing in the case of the sufferer to render his situation particularly perilous, unless a fever should supervene, so said the doctor, but he also confessed that the symptoms indicated more than ordinary exhaustion of shipwreck and the consequence of broken limbs, so he advised a disposition of worldly affairs, as one of the best means of tranquillizing his system.

In the night, while Amelia relieved the watch of the other person, the sufferer called her to him, and when she had disposed his limbs in a favorable position, he remarked that during the whole of her kind attendance on him he had never seen her face—her voice he had heard, it seemed familiar to him, and the name by which she was called was one that he could never forget.

Amelia drew the curtain aside, and the light of the night-lamp gave the patient a full view of her face. He started:

“And that face, too!—looks and name, too! Do I dream, or is it real?”

“What do you see?” said Amelia with kindness. “You seem astonished at my name—is it so unusual, or so familiar to you?”

“You surely are not of this place? And the name —”

“Iamof this place—though I was not born here—and thoughAmeliais the name of my mother, I have reason to believe that I was named for the daughter of one of our excellent neighbors.”

“It is so—yes. I must have been dreaming—perhaps I am feverish. Will you talk a little, however, and let me hear your voice?”

“If you feel able to hear metalk, perhaps you would prefer to hear me read a short passage in the Bible.”

The patient ratherconsented, than desired it.

There was the next day a much longer conversation between the patient and his young nurse, in which he took occasion to utter opinions upon religious matters quite heretical.

“I did not come hither, captain,” said Amelia, “to dispute upon religious subjects with you. I am no disputant. It is my duty, however, to say distinctly, lest you should mistake my silence, that in my opinion you are quite wrong, and that your present situation is such as to render your irreligious impressions the more fearful to me as they are the more dangerous to you.”

“Why then will you not discuss the question of the truth of Christianity with me?”

“Simply because I do not think that I am competent to the task; and—but no.”

“What do you mean by your unassigned second reason?”

“I mean simply that I do not think you wish to be convinced of the truth of religion.”

“That is hard—but I do wish to believe it if it is true.”

“Captain Wilkinson, if you really wish to believe in the great truths of Christianity, I will invite the clergyman to come down hither and converse with you. Tell me—not now, but tell me after thinking maturely upon it, say this evening, whether you really desire information.”

At night it was again Amelia’s turn to sit with the patient. He intimated that he continued of the same opinion.

“Then I will send for the minister.”

“Let me, while you remain, talk with you, we will have the parson afterward.”

Considerable time was spent by the captain in presenting his views of theology. They were crude and disjointed. He had been poorly instructed, and having led a life of great freedom he felt it much easier to deny the existence of any law, than to reconcile his conduct to the requirements of what was declared to be a divine law. “Nay,” said he, “truth, honesty, sincerity, sobriety, and all these virtues, are only the result of long experience, and men willing to enforce them as a sort of mercantile convenience have declared them to be a part of the requirements of a divine power. The very fact that they are found to be convenient to social and public life, proves that they are mere deductions from general experience, and not the requirements of God.”

“So then you think that a God who is the father as well as the creator of mankind, would not make the rules which He gave for man’s government subservient to man’s happiness?”

“Tell me, Amelia, does your happiness result from your obedience?”

“So far as I am obedient I am happy. It is my mortification to believe that my obedience is too often in theact, rather than in the will. It is easy for me to obey the command of my mother and to have her satisfied—but God who sees the heart, undoubtedly judges me closer, and knowing it, I lack the happiness which perfect obedience would insure.”

“Do you see the relation between the actor of a present life and his happiness or misery?”

“No, I do not. But I believe that such a relation does exist, and though I may not be able now to show that relation in others, yet I believe it becomes manifest at some period; certainly where they are not traceable in this world they become evident in the next.”

“That next world is a sort of safety-valve to those who argue on religious topics with men like me. But if you could show me the relations which exist between your conduct and your present situation, or the dependence of my situation upon my present conduct, I might believe that there was some law—and when there is a law there must be a law-giver.”

“Alas, captain, the discussion of causes and effects will not much benefit you at the present time, especially with such an one as I for an expounder. What you need is not argument, but reflection. Be assured of one thing, religion has had stronger antagonists than you, and they have been defeated, convinced, converted. But what you need—and captain you do needthat—is to cease to argue in your own breast, and against what I perceive to be your own convictions—confess plainly now that you have made up your scepticism to meet certain circumstances of your own life, and that you are not prepared to admit of the connection of revealed religion and the terrible consequences of a neglect of its requirements.”

“What circumstance of my life,” said the captain, with much emphasis, “what circumstance of my life has thus induced me to shut my eyes and heart against truth?”

“That I do not know. But I believe if you will go over in your own mind candidly the events of your life, you will confess that, if they have not brought upon you the present fearful visitations, they have at least served to make you argue yourself into infidelity.”

“Amelia, what you say may be true—I will think of the matter. It would be curious if I should be brought back to my early belief by one so young and delicate as you.”

“My youth and ignorance may be altogether in favor of such a result. You can have little or no pride in a discussion with me, and thus, instead of seeking to sustain an argument for the sake of a triumph, you might be willing to listen to the truths which I utter for the sake of the truth. But you intimated a disposition to review your life, and see whether you cannot find some relation between your past conduct and your present scepticism. And permit me to say that your present situation, though not dangerous perhaps, is one that ought to suggest to you the inquiry, whether the foundation on which you have placed your future condition is safe, and the conversation which we have already had is as much I am sure as the doctor would permit were he here. Sleep will be advantageous to your physical powers. I am confident that calm reflection, and honest retrospection must be profitable to your mind.”

“She talks like a parson,” said the captain, as he settled himself for sleep or for thought.

More than two hours had elapsed before Amelia could discover that her patient was asleep, though he was perfectly still. At length the heavy, regular breathing denoted that he had succeeded in his effort to sleep, or had failed in his efforts to keep awake.

Before Amelia saw the captain again she had visited her mother and made her acquainted with the state of the patient’s mind. Mrs. B. could discover in the remarks of the captain which her daughter repeated to her, little else than the willingness of a sick or lame man to be courteous and civil to a voluntary nurse, and she expressed such an opinion to her daughter.

“I think otherwise, mother,” said Amelia, “not so much from the words of the captain as from his tone, his earnestness of expression, and his readiness to return to the conversation whenever other persons leave the room.”

“I have not so much confidence, Amelia, in the re-adoption of early religious opinions upon a sick bed; as some persons have. I love the virtue, the piety which extends along from the nursery to the grave, blessing and sanctifying the whole existence, and forming a complete chain of moral life, a religious growth.”

“But, dear mother, if that chain has been ruptured by extraordinary violence, is it not best to connect the links? There may be less of continued perfection, but the reproduction of a part is worth the effort.”

“The captain seems to have made a strong impression upon you, and to have excited unusual interest for a stranger.”

Amelia did not blush, because she did not understand what would ordinarily be inferred from such a remark as her mother’s.

“I do not know when I have felt a greater interest for one of whom I know so little. But undoubtedly a part of the interest is mingled with curiosity. He is a man of some education, of much travel, and of more observation than masters of ships generally have. But there seems to be some event in his past life upon which he is strongly sensitive, and to which he is constantly referring; especially when a little feverish and in disturbed sleep.”

“I need not say to you, my child, that you will hear as little of such involuntary talk as possible, and never repeat a word of it unless it be tohisadvantage.”

“I understand, mother. But I have already told the captain that I thought his scepticism was referable to some past event, and he seemed to be struck by the remark.”

“You will find that you were correct; and you will discern, moreover, that while he is sceptical frompastoccurrences, he postpones investigating the foundation of his opinions, on account of the interference which a correction of error would have on somefutureevent. Men deceive themselves, or try to, just as much as they try to deceive others; and the whole course of the immoral man is one of deception, self-deception, from which rarely any thing but death arouses him.”

Amelia received some advice with regard to her conduct, and some instruction relative to her proposed argument, and then took leave of her mother to enter upon her turn of duty in the chamber of the captain, promising to return the next morning.

But the next morning Mrs. Bertrand looked in vain for her daughter, and more than ever regretted that she herself was unable to share in the duties which Amelia assumed. It was not until evening that a lad came to the house, and brought a letter from Amelia, addressed to her mother. This is a copy of the letter hastily, but I believe faithfully made.

Thursday, Noon.Dear Mother,—You will wonder at my absence, and still more that, not returning in the morning, I did not send word to you; before I conclude this hasty note, you will see not only why I did not come, but why I now write.After some arrangements made for the night, the other attendant left me with the patient, who seemed unusually restless, and were it not for the large box in which his leg is confined, he certainly would have left the bed. I sought to soothe him, and it was only when I reopened the conversation of my former visit, that he seemed to forget his pain.“You remarked,” said he, “that scepticism is often referable to some former error of life, and the sceptic is only seeking to hide his fears of consequences in another state of existence, by creating a belief that there is no other state.”“That was the inference, if not the words of my remarks,” said I.“Well, I have thought much of it since you left me, and I have wished for life to repair if possible some injuries which I have done to others. The very feverish condition in which I find myself, and which I heard the doctor say would be dangerous should it come, leads me to fear that I shall not be able to accomplish my wish; and struck with the peculiar expression of your face, and the coincidence of your name —”“That is my mother’s name,” said I.“But you were born in this town?”I gave no answer.“Nevertheless, I will yield to the suggestion which I have felt, if you will allow me, and show you that while I have greatly erred, and may refer my scepticism to my errors, I yet have sought to repair a part of the injuries I did in my youth.”“If I heard your statement, should I be at liberty to tell my mother, because I do not like to hear anything which I may not communicate to her; and, of course, I could not tell, and she would not hear what was told to me in strict confidence?”The captain reached his uninjured arm over the bed-side, and pressed my hand. I understood it to be a commendation of your instructions to me, and a consent that I should be at liberty to repeat what he said. But, oh, what a fever was scorching his skin.“I was left with a fortune, a good education, and a knowledge of mercantile life. Too young to have the guidance of myself—but I escaped what the world calls gross dissipation.“At 21 I was married to a poor, friendless girl, whom I hadinjured. I was married in the morning at 6 o’clock, and in half an hour left the home of my wife, whom I never saw again.“I returned from Europe in about a year, having added much to my knowledge of the world, and to my means of enjoying it. In New York, I met a young lady, whose excellence in every female qualification so enraptured me, let me say rather, so awakened in me the slumbering affection of my heart, that I became attentive, and found that I had been successful in inducing love for me in her breast. I will not, for my mind now seems to waver, I will not attempt to describe the progress of my courtship. But when I returned from another voyage to England, I led Amelia to the altar. We were married in Grace Church; and if mortal ever felt happy, certainly I did, as I handed my wife into the parlor of her distant relative with whom she resided—her father and mother having been dead for some years.“Some time in the course of that day, for we were married early in the morning, letters were received at the house. One was addressed to Amelia—of course, with her family name. I remember now, as she opened it, she turned the letter over, and pointing to the superscription, which was in a bold, masculine hand, remarked, that if it was an offer, it came rather late.“ ‘Too late for any thingnow,’ said her relatives.“My own heart seemed to sink within me.“Amelia opened the letter. I looked at her as she read it. She turned pale, and for a moment I thought she would have fainted; but rallying herself, she placed the letter in my hand, with the single remark, ‘It is for you to explain this.’“The letter was from some one in Albany—it contained only these words:“ ‘If the mail is not detained, this will reach you before you are married. Ask Captain Wilkinson whether he has not already a wife in Vermont.‘A Friend.’“For one moment I hesitated whether I would not deny the charge implied, and take Amelia with me to Europe—her means with my wealth would have sustained us. But truth is always ready for utterance—and before the lie could be formed, I was ready to confess.“ ‘Whatever wrong may have been done,’ said Amelia, ‘all I ask is that it may not be increased.’“ ‘The answer to the question in the letter,’ said I ‘is in theaffirmative.’ And before explanation could be given, Amelia had been conducted to her chamber, and I took my hat and left the house. I have not seen her since, nor have I ever been able to ascertain her residence. She is probably dead, as is certainly also the unfortunate woman in Vermont, who died soon after my exposure. I have been in business, and I have traveled much; I have wasted much wealth, and acquired much. I have none to share with me my property, and no one to inherit it when I depart, which must be soon, as I believe the child born in Vermont died soon after its mother’s decease. The deep solicitude which you have manifested for my welfare, temporal and spiritual, has not been without its effect, and I have resolved that, whether I recover or not, you shall inherit the remainder of my fortune, either by right or by bequest; read—read a little—the Bible, or some from the Prayer Book.”I did read, and he seemed calmer for a moment, and then he said, “you now see what are the errors—thesins—and the misery of my past life; I give up scepticism; I do believe,” and he added, “ ‘help thou mine unbelief.’ ”The face of Captain W. at this moment appeared inflamed and swollen, and he became uneasy and quite delirious—and all his symptoms were aggravated. Early this morning Dr. F. pronounced the new disease to be the small-pox. Of course, I have been exposed, and I shall now remain in the house, and while I am able, shall attend upon the Captain. Let no one else be exposed to the contagion.But, dear mother, what is this which I have heard? I know that you once resided in New York. I have seen in your desk, whither you had sent me, letters addressed to you in a name different from that which we both have. I saw also, in the same place, but never ventured to mention the discovery to you, a miniature which much resembled Capt. Wilkinson. What am I to think? Is this your husband—are you the woman whom he deceived—if so, who and what amI? Certainly I cannot behischild. Let me know—let me know all; but whatever else happen, oh, dear, dear mother, let me not lose the title of your affectionatedaughter.Amelia.

Thursday, Noon.

Dear Mother,—You will wonder at my absence, and still more that, not returning in the morning, I did not send word to you; before I conclude this hasty note, you will see not only why I did not come, but why I now write.

After some arrangements made for the night, the other attendant left me with the patient, who seemed unusually restless, and were it not for the large box in which his leg is confined, he certainly would have left the bed. I sought to soothe him, and it was only when I reopened the conversation of my former visit, that he seemed to forget his pain.

“You remarked,” said he, “that scepticism is often referable to some former error of life, and the sceptic is only seeking to hide his fears of consequences in another state of existence, by creating a belief that there is no other state.”

“That was the inference, if not the words of my remarks,” said I.

“Well, I have thought much of it since you left me, and I have wished for life to repair if possible some injuries which I have done to others. The very feverish condition in which I find myself, and which I heard the doctor say would be dangerous should it come, leads me to fear that I shall not be able to accomplish my wish; and struck with the peculiar expression of your face, and the coincidence of your name —”

“That is my mother’s name,” said I.

“But you were born in this town?”

I gave no answer.

“Nevertheless, I will yield to the suggestion which I have felt, if you will allow me, and show you that while I have greatly erred, and may refer my scepticism to my errors, I yet have sought to repair a part of the injuries I did in my youth.”

“If I heard your statement, should I be at liberty to tell my mother, because I do not like to hear anything which I may not communicate to her; and, of course, I could not tell, and she would not hear what was told to me in strict confidence?”

The captain reached his uninjured arm over the bed-side, and pressed my hand. I understood it to be a commendation of your instructions to me, and a consent that I should be at liberty to repeat what he said. But, oh, what a fever was scorching his skin.

“I was left with a fortune, a good education, and a knowledge of mercantile life. Too young to have the guidance of myself—but I escaped what the world calls gross dissipation.

“At 21 I was married to a poor, friendless girl, whom I hadinjured. I was married in the morning at 6 o’clock, and in half an hour left the home of my wife, whom I never saw again.

“I returned from Europe in about a year, having added much to my knowledge of the world, and to my means of enjoying it. In New York, I met a young lady, whose excellence in every female qualification so enraptured me, let me say rather, so awakened in me the slumbering affection of my heart, that I became attentive, and found that I had been successful in inducing love for me in her breast. I will not, for my mind now seems to waver, I will not attempt to describe the progress of my courtship. But when I returned from another voyage to England, I led Amelia to the altar. We were married in Grace Church; and if mortal ever felt happy, certainly I did, as I handed my wife into the parlor of her distant relative with whom she resided—her father and mother having been dead for some years.

“Some time in the course of that day, for we were married early in the morning, letters were received at the house. One was addressed to Amelia—of course, with her family name. I remember now, as she opened it, she turned the letter over, and pointing to the superscription, which was in a bold, masculine hand, remarked, that if it was an offer, it came rather late.

“ ‘Too late for any thingnow,’ said her relatives.

“My own heart seemed to sink within me.

“Amelia opened the letter. I looked at her as she read it. She turned pale, and for a moment I thought she would have fainted; but rallying herself, she placed the letter in my hand, with the single remark, ‘It is for you to explain this.’

“The letter was from some one in Albany—it contained only these words:

“ ‘If the mail is not detained, this will reach you before you are married. Ask Captain Wilkinson whether he has not already a wife in Vermont.‘A Friend.’

“ ‘If the mail is not detained, this will reach you before you are married. Ask Captain Wilkinson whether he has not already a wife in Vermont.

‘A Friend.’

“For one moment I hesitated whether I would not deny the charge implied, and take Amelia with me to Europe—her means with my wealth would have sustained us. But truth is always ready for utterance—and before the lie could be formed, I was ready to confess.

“ ‘Whatever wrong may have been done,’ said Amelia, ‘all I ask is that it may not be increased.’

“ ‘The answer to the question in the letter,’ said I ‘is in theaffirmative.’ And before explanation could be given, Amelia had been conducted to her chamber, and I took my hat and left the house. I have not seen her since, nor have I ever been able to ascertain her residence. She is probably dead, as is certainly also the unfortunate woman in Vermont, who died soon after my exposure. I have been in business, and I have traveled much; I have wasted much wealth, and acquired much. I have none to share with me my property, and no one to inherit it when I depart, which must be soon, as I believe the child born in Vermont died soon after its mother’s decease. The deep solicitude which you have manifested for my welfare, temporal and spiritual, has not been without its effect, and I have resolved that, whether I recover or not, you shall inherit the remainder of my fortune, either by right or by bequest; read—read a little—the Bible, or some from the Prayer Book.”

I did read, and he seemed calmer for a moment, and then he said, “you now see what are the errors—thesins—and the misery of my past life; I give up scepticism; I do believe,” and he added, “ ‘help thou mine unbelief.’ ”

The face of Captain W. at this moment appeared inflamed and swollen, and he became uneasy and quite delirious—and all his symptoms were aggravated. Early this morning Dr. F. pronounced the new disease to be the small-pox. Of course, I have been exposed, and I shall now remain in the house, and while I am able, shall attend upon the Captain. Let no one else be exposed to the contagion.

But, dear mother, what is this which I have heard? I know that you once resided in New York. I have seen in your desk, whither you had sent me, letters addressed to you in a name different from that which we both have. I saw also, in the same place, but never ventured to mention the discovery to you, a miniature which much resembled Capt. Wilkinson. What am I to think? Is this your husband—are you the woman whom he deceived—if so, who and what amI? Certainly I cannot behischild. Let me know—let me know all; but whatever else happen, oh, dear, dear mother, let me not lose the title of your affectionatedaughter.

Amelia.

The next day Amelia received a note from her mother. It was short and written under great agitation.

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