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Appendix, 463

THE LILY AND THE TOTEM.

THE FIRST VOYAGE OF RIBAULT.

Introduction--The Huguenots--Their Condition in France--First Expedition for the New World, under the auspices of the Admiral Coligny, Conducted by John Ribault--Colony Established in Florida, and confided to the charge of Captain Albert.

It is not so generally known that the colonies of the Huguenots, in the new world, were almost coeval with those of the Spaniards. They anticipated them in the northern portions of the continent. These settlements were projected by the active genius of the justly-celebrated French admiral, Gaspard de Coligny, one of the great leaders of the Huguenots in France. His persevering energies, impelled by his sagacious forethought, effected a beginning in the work of foreign colonization, which, unhappily for himself and party, he was not permitted to prosecute, with the proper vigor, to successful completion. His sagacity led him to apprehend, from an early experience of the character of the Queen-mother, in the bigoted and brutal reign of Charles the Ninth, that there would, in little time, be no safety in France for the dissenters from the established religion. The feebleness of the youthful Prince, the jealous and malignant character of Catharine--her utter faithlessness, and the hatred which she felt for the Protestants, which no pact could bind, and no concession mollify,--to say nothing of the controlling will of Pius the Fifth, who had ascended the Papal throne, sworn to the extermination of all heresies,--all combined to assure the Protestants of the dangers by which their cause was threatened. The danger was one of life as well as religion. It was in the destruction of the one, that the enemies of the Huguenots contemplated the overthrow of the other. Coligny was not the man to be deceived by the hollow compromises, the delusive promises, the false truces, which were all employed in turn to beguile him and his associates into confidence, and persuade them into the most treacherous snares. He combined a fair proportion of the cunning of the serpent with the dove's purity, and, maintaining strict watch upon his enemies, succeeded, for a long period, in eluding the artifices by which he was overcome at last. Availing himself of the influence of his position, and of a brief respite from that open war which preceded the famous Edict of January, 1562, by which the Huguenots were admitted, with some restrictions, to the exercise of their religion, Coligny addressed himself to the task of establishing a colony of Protestants in America. He readily divined the future importance, to his sect, of such a place of refuge. The moment was favorable to his objects. The policy of the Queen-mother was not yet sufficiently matured, to render it proper that she should oppose herself to his desires. Perhaps, she also conceived the plan a good one, which should relieve the country of a race whom she equally loathed and dreaded. It is possible that she did not fully conjecture the ultimate calculations of the admiral. The king, himself, was a minor, entirely in her hands, who could add nothing to her counsels, or, for the present, interfere with her authority; and, without seeking farther to inquire by what motives she was governed in according to Coligny the permission which he sought, it is enough that he obtained the necessary sanction. Of this he readily availed himself. It was not, by the way, his first attempt at colonization. Having in view the same objects by which he was governed in the present instance, he had, in 1555, sent out an expedition to Brazil under Villegagnon. This enterprise had failed through the perfidy of that commander. Its failure did not discourage the admiral. Though the full character of Catharine had not developed itself, in all its cruel and heartless characteristics, it was yet justly understood by him, and he never suffered himself to forget how necessary to the sect which he represented was the desired haven of security which he sought, in a region beyond her influence.

The woods were "full of many beastes, as stags, deere and hares, and likewise of lakes and pooles of fresh water, with great plentie of fowles, convenient for all kinde of pleasant game." The air was "goode and wholesome, temperate between hot and colde;" "no vehement windes doe blowe in these regions, and those that do commonly reigne are the southwest and west windes in the summer season;" "the skye cleare and faire, with very little raine; and if, at any time, the ayre be cloudie and mistie with the southerne winde, immediately it is dissolved and waxeth cleare and faire againe. The sea is calme, not boisterous, and the waves gentle." And the people were like their climate. The nature which yielded to their wants, without exacting the toil of ever-straining sinews, left them unembittered by necessities which take the heart from youth, and the spirit from play and exercise. No carking cares interfered with their humanity to check hospitality in its first impulse, and teach avarice to withhold the voluntary tribute which the natural virtues would prompt, in obedience to a selfishness that finds its justification in serious toils which know no remission, and a forethought that is never permitted to forget the necessities of the coming day. Verazzani found the people as mild and grateful as their climate. They crowded to the shore as the stranger ships drew nigh, "making divers synes of friendship." They showed themselves "very courteous and gentle," and, in a single incident, won the hearts of the Europeans, who seldom, at that period, in their intercourse with the natives, were known to exhibit an instance so beautiful, of a humanity so Christian. A young sailor, attempting to swim on shore, had overrated his strength. Cast among the breakers, he was in danger of being drowned. This, when the Indians saw, they dashed into the surf, and dragged the fair-skinned voyager to land. Here, when he recovered from his stupor, he exhibited signs of the greatest apprehension, finding himself in the hands of the savages. But his lamentations, which were piteously loud, only provoked theirs. Their tears flowed at his weeping. In this way they strove to "cheere him, and to give him courage." Nor were they neglectful of other means. "They set him on the ground, at the foot of a little hill against the sunne, and began to behold him with great admiration, marveiling at the whitenesse of his fleshe;" "Putting off his clothes, they made him warme at a great fire, not without one great feare, by what remayned in the boate, that they would have rosted him at that fire and have eaten him." But the fear was idle. When they had warmed and revived the stranger, they reclothed him, and as he showed an anxiety to return to the ship, "they, with great love, clapping him fast about with many embracings," accompanied him to the shore, where they left him, retiring to a distance, whence they could witness his departure without awakening the apprehensions of his comrades. These people were of "middle stature, handsome visage and delicate limmes; of very little strength, but of prompt wit."

We need not pursue the details of these earlier historians. They suffice to direct attention to Florida, and to persuade adventure with fanciful ideas of its charming superiority over all unknown regions. But the adventurers, until Coligny's enterprise was conceived, meditated the invasion of the country, and the gathering of its hidden treasures, rather than the establishment of any European settlements in its glorious retreats. It was not till the eighteenth day of February, in the Year of Grace, one thousand five hundred and sixty-two, that the plan of the Admiral of France was sufficiently matured for execution. On that day he despatched two vessels from France, well manned and furnished, under the command of one John Ribault, for the express purpose of making the first permanent European establishment in these regions of romance. The narrative of this enterprise is chiefly drawn from the writings of Ren? Laudonniere, who himself went out as a lieutenant in the expedition. Laudonniere, in his narrative of their progress, says nothing of the secret objects of Coligny, of which he probably knew nothing. He ascribes to the King--the Queen-mother, rather--a nobler policy than either of them ever entertained. "My Lord of Chastillon," thus he writes,--"A nobleman more desirous of the publique than of his private benefits, understanding the pleasure of the King, his Prince, which was to discover new and strange countries, caused vessels for this purpose to be made ready with all diligence, and men to be levied meet for such an enterprise."

Charlevoix describes Ribault as "un ancien officier de marine," and speaks of him as a man of experience and "Z?l? Huguenot." Of his vessels, on this expedition, he says that they belonged to the class called "Roberges, et qui differoient peu des Caravelles Espagnoles."

But this question need not detain us. Laudonniere speaks of the armament as ample for the purpose for which it was designed--"so well furnished with gentlemen and with oulde souldiers that he had meanes to achieve some notable thing, and worthie of eternall memorie." This was an exaggeration, something Spanish in its tenor,--one of those flourishes of rhetoric among the voyagers of that day, which had already grown to be a sound without much signification. The vessels were small, as was the compliment of men dispatched. The objects of the expedition were limited, did not contemplate exploration but settlement, and, consequently, were not likely to find opportunity for great enterprises. The voyage occupied two months; the route pursued carefully avoided that usually taken by the Spaniards, whom already our adventurers had cause to fear. At the end of this period, land was made in the latitude of St. Augustine, to the cape of which they gave the name of St. Fran?ois. From this point, coasting northwardly, they discovered "a very faire and great river"--the San Matheo of the Spaniards, now the St. John's, to which Ribault, as he discovered it on the first of May, gave the name of that month. This river he penetrated in his boats. He was met on the shore by many of the natives, men and women. These received him with gentleness and peace. Their chief man made an oration, and honored Ribault, at the close, with a present of "chamois skinnes." On the ensuing day, he "caused a pillar of hard stone to be planted within the sayde river, and not farre from the mouth of the same, upon a little sandie knappe," on which the arms of France were engraved. Crossing to the opposite shores of this river, a religious service was performed in the presence of the Indians. There the red-men, perhaps for the first time, beheld the pure and simple rites of the genuine Christian. Prayers were said, and thanks given to the Deity, "for that, of his grace, hee had conducted the French nation into these strange places." This service being ended, the Indians conducted the strangers into the presence of their king, who received them in a sitting posture, upon a couch made of bay leaves and palmetto. Speeches were made between the parties which were understood by neither. But their tenor was amicable, the savage chieftain giving to Ribault, at parting, a basket wrought very ingeniously of palm leaves, "and a great skinne painted and drawen throughout with the pictures of divers wilde beastes; so livly drawen and portrayed that nothing lacked life." Fish were taken for the Frenchmen by the hospitable natives, in weirs made of reeds, fashioned like a maze or labyrinth--"troutes, great mullets, plaise, turbots, and marvellous store of other sorts of fishes altogether different from ours." Another chief upon this river received them with like favors. Two of the sons of this chief are represented as "exceeding faire and strong." They were followed by troops of the natives, "having their bowes and arrowes, in marveilous good order."

Laudonniere, in Hakluyt, gives the regal title among the Floridians as Paracoussi. Charlevoix writes the word Paraousti, or Paracousti; "et ausquels les Castillans donnent le titre g?n?ral de Caciques." Mico, in subsequent periods, seems to have been the more popular title among the Florida Indians, signifying the same thing, or its equivalents, Chief, Prince, or Head Warrior.

From this river, still pursuing a northwardly course, Ribault came to another which he explored and named the Seine, because it appeared to resemble the river of that name in France. We pass over the minor details in this progress--how he communed with the natives--who, everywhere seemed to have entertained our Huguenots with equal grace and gentleness, and who are described as a goodly people, of lively wit and great stature. Ribault continued to plant columns, and to take possession of the country after the usual forms, conferring names upon its several streams, which he borrowed for the purpose from similar well-known rivers in France. Thus, for a time, the St. Mary's became the Seine; the Satilla, the Somme; the Altamaha, the Loire; the Ogechee, the Garonne; and the Savannah, the Gironde. The river to which his prows were especially directed, was that to which the name of Jordan had been given by Vasquez de Ayllon, some forty years before. This is our present Combahee. In sailing north, in this search, other smaller rivers were discovered, one of which was called the Belle-a-veoir. Separated by a furious tempest from his pinnaces, which had been kept in advance for the purpose of penetrating and exploring these streams, Ribault, with his ships, was compelled to stand out to sea. When he regained the coast and his pinnaces, he was advised of a "mightie river," in which they had found safe harborage from the tempest, a river which, "in beautie and bignesse" exceeded all the former. Delighted with this discovery, our Huguenots made sail to reach this noble stream.

The object of Ribault had been some safe and pleasant harborage, in which his people could refresh themselves for a season. His desires were soon gratified. He cast anchor at the mouth of a mighty river, to which, "because of the fairnesse and largenesse thereoff," he gave the name of Port Royale, the name which it still bears. The depth of this river is such, that, according to Laudonniere, "when the sea beginneth to flowe, the greatest shippes of France, yea, the argosies of Venice, may enter there." Ribault, at the head of his soldiers, was the first to land. Grateful, indeed, to the eye and fancy of our Frenchmen, was the scene around them. They had already passed through a fairy-like region, of islet upon islet, reposing upon the deep,--crowned with green forests, and arresting, as it were, the wild assaults of ocean upon the shores of which they appeared to keep watch and guard. And, passing between these islets and the main, over stillest waters, with a luxuriant shrubbery on either hand, and vines and flowers of starred luxuriance trailing about them to the very lips of this ocean, they had arrived at an imperial growth of forest. The mighty shafts that rose around them, heavy with giant limbs, and massed in their luxuriant wealth of leaves, particularly impressed the minds of our voyagers--"mightye high oakes and infinite store of cedars," and pines fitted for the masts of "such great ammirals" as had never yet floated in the European seas. Their senses were assailed with fresh and novel delights at every footstep. The superb magnolia, with its great and snow-white chalices; the flowering dogwood with its myriad blossoms, thick and richly gleaming as the starry host of heaven; the wandering jessamine, whose yellow trophies, mingling with grey mosses of the oak, stooped to the upward struggling billows of the deep, giving out odor at every rise and fall of the ambitious wavelet,--these, by their unwonted treasures of scent and beauty, compelled the silent but profound admiration of the strangers. "Exceeding pleasant" did the "very fragrant odour" make the place; while other novelties interposed to complete the fascinations of a spot, the peculiarities of which were equally fresh and delightful. Their farther acquaintance with the country only served to increase its attractions. As they wandered through the woods, they "saw nothing but turkey cocks flying in the forests, partridges, gray and red, little different from ours, but chiefly in bignesse;"--"we heard also within the woods the voices of stagges, of beares, of hyenas, of leopards, and divers other sorts of beasts unknown to us. Being delighted with this place, we set ourselves to fishing with nets, and caught such a number of fish that it was wonderful."

Our Huguenots, excellent Christians though they were, were by no means insensible to the tidings of pearl and gold. These glimpses of treasures, already familiar to their imaginations, greatly increase, in their sight, the natural beauties of the country. The narratives of the red men, imperfectly understood, and construed by the desires of the strangers, rather than their minds, were full of marvels of neighboring lands and nations,--great empires of wealth and strength,--cities in romantic solitudes,--high places among almost inaccessible mountains, in which the treasures are equally precious and abundant. Listening to such legends, our Frenchmen linger with the red men, until the approach of night counsels them to seek the security of their ships.

But, with the dawning of the following day the explorations were resumed. Before leaving his vessel, however, Ribault provides himself with "a pillar of hard stone, fashioned like a column, whereon the armes of France were graven," with the purpose of planting "the same in the fairest place that he coulde finde." "This done, we embarked ourselves, and sayled three leagues towards the west; where we discovered a little river, up which wee sayled so long, that, in the ende, wee found it returned into the great current, and in his return, to make a little island separated from the firme lande, where wee went on shore, and by commandment of the captain, because it was exceeding faire and pleasant, there we planted the pillar upon a hillock open round about to the view and environed with a lake halfe a fathom deepe, of very good and sweete water."

To the little river which surrounded the islet, on which the pillar was raised, they gave the name of "Liborne." The island itself is supposed to be that which is now called Lemon Island. The matter is one which still admits of doubt, though scarcely beyond the reach of certainty, in a close examination from the guide posts which we still possess. It is a question which may well provoke the diligence of the local antiquary. "Another isle, not far distant from" that of the pillar, next claimed the attention of the voyagers. Here they "found nothing but tall cedars, the fairest that were seene in this country. For this cause wee called it the Isle of Cedars."

This ended their exploration for the day. A few days were consumed in farther researches, without leading to any new discoveries. In the meantime, Ribault prepared to execute the commands of his sovereign, in the performance of one of the tasks which civilization but too frequently sanctions at the expense of humanity. He was commanded by the Queen-mother to capture and carry home to France a couple of the natives. These, as we have seen, were a mild race, maintaining among themselves a gentle intercourse, and exercising towards strangers a grateful hospitality. It was with a doubtful propriety that our Frenchman determined to separate any of them from their homes and people. But it was not for Ribault to question the decrees of that sovereign whom it was the policy of the Huguenots, at present, to conciliate. Having selected a special and sufficient complement of soldiers, he determined "to returne once againe toward the Indians which inhabiteth that arme of the river which runneth toward the West." The pinnace was prepared for this purpose. The object of the voyage was successful. The Indians were again found where they had been at first encountered. The Frenchmen were received with hospitality. Ribault made his desires known to the king or chief of the tribe, who graciously gave his permission. Two of the Indians, who fancied that they were more favored than the rest of their brethren, by the choice of the Frenchmen, yielded very readily to the entreaties which beguiled them on board one of the vessels. They probably misunderstood the tenor of the application; or, in their savage simplicity, concluded that a voyage to the land of the pale-faces was only some such brief journey as they were wont to make, in their cypress canoes, from shore to shore along their rivers--or possibly as far down as the great frith in which their streams were lost. But it was not long before our savage voyagers were satisfied with the experiment. They soon ceased to be pleased or flattered with the novelty of their situation. The very attentions bestowed upon them only provoked their apprehensions. The cruise wearied them; and, when they found that the vessels continued to keep away from the land, they became seriously uneasy. Born swimmers, they had no fear about making the shore when once in the water: and it required the utmost vigilance of the Frenchmen to keep them from darting overboard. It was in vain, for a long time, that they strove to appease and to soothe the unhappy captives. Their detention, against their desires, now made them indignant. Gifts were pressed upon them, such as they were known to crave and to esteem above all other possessions. But these they rejected with scorn. They would receive nothing in exchange for their liberty. The simple language in which the old chronicler describes the scene and their sorrows, has in it much that is highly touching, because of its very simplicity. They felt their captivity, and were not to be beguiled from this humiliating conviction by any trappings or soothings. Their freedom--the privilege of eager movements through billow and forest--sporting as wantonly as bird and fish in both--was too precious for any compensation. They sank down upon the deck, with clasped hands, sitting together apart from the crew, gazing upon the shores with mournful eyes, and chaunting a melancholy ditty, which seemed to the watchful and listening Frenchmen a strain of exile and lamentation--"agreeing so sweetly together, that, in hearing their song, it seemed that they lamented the absence of their friendes." And thus they continued all night to sing without ceasing.

The pinnace, meanwhile, lay at anchor, the tide being against them; with the dawn of day the voyage was resumed, and the ships were reached in safety where they lay in the roadstead. Transferred to these, the two captives continued to deplore their fate. Every effort was made to reconcile them to their situation, and nothing was withheld which experience had shown to be especially grateful to the savage fancy. But they rejected everything; even the food which had now become necessary to their condition. They held out till nearly sunset, in their rejection of the courtesies, which, with a show of kindness, deprived them of the most precious enjoyment and passion of their lives. But the inferior nature at length insisted upon its rights. "In the end they were constrained to forget their superstitions," and to eat the meat which was set before them. They even received the gifts which they had formerly rejected; and, as if reconciled to a condition from which they found it impossible to escape, they put on a more cheerful countenance. "They became, therefore, more jocunde; every houre made us a thousand discourses, being marveillous sorry that we could not understand them." Laudonniere set himself to work to acquire their language. He strove still more to conciliate their favor; engaged them in frequent conversation; and, by showing them the objects for which he sought their names, picked up numerous words which he carefully put on paper. In a few days he was enabled to make himself understood by them, in ordinary matters, and to comprehend much that they said to him. They flattered him in turn. They told him of their feats and sports, and what pleasures they could give him in the chase. They would take food from no hands but his; and succeeded in blinding the vigilance of the Frenchmen. They were not more reconciled to their prison-bonds than before. They had simply changed their policy; and, when, after several days' detention, they had succeeded in lulling to sleep the suspicions of their captors, they stole away at midnight from the ship, leaving behind them all the gifts which had been forced upon them, as if, to have retained them, would have established, in the pale-faces, a right to their liberties--thus showing, according to Laudonniere, "that they were not void of reason."

"Howe much then ought so many worthy examples move you to plant here? Considering, also, that hereby you shall be registered forever as the first that inhabited this strange country. I pray you, therefore, all to advise yourselves thereof, and to declare your mindes freely unto me, protesting that I will so well imprint your names in the King's eares, and the other princes, that your renowne shall hereafter shine unquenchable through our realm of France."

Charlevoix, in his "Fastes Chronologiques," preparatory to his work on New France, locates Charles Fort, under Ribault, near to the site of the present city of Charleston. In his "Histoire Generale," and in the map which illustrates this narrative, however, he concurs in the statement of the text. He also names the North Edisto the St. Croix.

THE COLONY UNDER ALBERT.

The Colonists, thus abandoned by their countrymen, proceeded to make themselves secure in their forest habitations. Day and night did they address themselves to the completion of their fortress. They have seen none of the natives in the immediate neighborhood of the spot in which they had pitched their tents; but, aware of the wandering habits of the red-men, they might naturally look for them at any moment. Their toils, quickened by their caution, enabled them to make rapid progress. While they labored, they felt nothing of their loneliness. The employments which accompanied their situation, and flowed from its necessities, might be said to exercise their fancies, and to subdue the tendency to melancholy which might naturally grow out of their isolation. Besides, the very novelty of the circumstances in which they found themselves had its attractions, particularly to a people so lively as the French. Our Huguenots, at the outset, were very sensible to the picturesque beauties of their forest habitation. For a season, bird, and beast, and tree, and flower, presented themselves to their delighted eyes, in guises of constantly varying attraction. The solitude, itself, possessed its charm, most fascinating of all,--until it became monotonous--to those who had been little favored of fortune in the crowded world of civilization; and, with the feeling of a first freshness in their hearts, and, while in the performance of duties which were equally necessary to their safety, and new to their experience, the whole prospect before them was beheld through that rose-colored atmosphere which the fancy so readily flings before the mind, beguiling the soberer thought into forgetfulness. During this period they toiled successfully upon their fortifications. They raised the parapet, they mounted the cannon for defence; built rude dwellings within the walls, and in their boundless contiguity of shade, with the feeling that they were in some sort "monarchs of all they beheld;" they felt neither loneliness nor fear.

Their homes built, their fortifications complete, they proceeded, in small detachments to explore the neighboring streams and woods. They had, so far, finished all their tasks without meeting with the natives. They did not shrink from this meeting. They now desired it from motives of policy. They had no reason to believe, from the specimens of the red-men whom they had already encountered, that they should have any difficulty in soothing any of the tribes; and they were justified in supposing that the impression already made upon those whom they met, would operate favorably upon their future intercourse. Boldly, then, our Frenchmen darted into the adjacent forests, gathering their game and provisions in the same grounds with the proprietors. But the latter were never to be seen. They were shy of the strangers, or they had not yet discovered their settlement. One day, however, a fortunate chance enabled a party of the Huguenots to discover, and to circumvent an Indian hunter, upon whom they came suddenly in the forests. At first the poor fellow was exceedingly dismayed at the encounter; but, subduing his fears, he submitted with a good grace to the wishes of his captors, and was conducted to the fortress. Here he was treated with consideration, and made happy by several trifles which were given him. His confidence was finally won, and his mouth was opened. He became communicative, and described his people and their territories. He avowed himself the subject of a great monarch, whom he called Audusta,--a name, in which, under the corruptions of a French pronunciation, we recognize the well-known modern name of Edisto. He described the boundaries of empire belonging to this forest chieftain; and gave a general and not incorrect idea of the whole surrounding country.

Captain Albert was exceedingly delighted with his acquisition. It was important that he should open an intercourse with the natives, to whose maize-fields and supplies of venison his necessities required he should look. He treated the hunter with liberality and courtesy, dismissing him at night-fall with many presents, of a kind most grateful to the savage taste. These hospitalities and gifts, it was not doubted, would pave the way for an intercourse equally profitable and pleasant to both the parties. Suffering a few days to elapse after the departure of the hunter, Albert prepared to follow his directions, and explore the settlements of King Audusta. He did so, and was received with great kindness by the stately savage. The Indian hunter had made a favorable report of the Frenchmen, and Audusta adopted them as his friends and allies. He promised them provisions and assistance, and the friendship of four other chiefs or princes, his tributaries, whose names are given as Mayou, Hoya, Touppa, and Stalam?. These were all, in turn,--except the last,--visited by Albert, who found a frank and generous welcome wherever he came. He consumed several days in these visits; and the intercourse, in a little while, between the French and red-men, grew so great, "that, in a manner, all things were soon common between them." Returning to Audusta, Albert prepared to visit Stalam?, whose country lay north of Fort Charles some fifteen leagues. This would make his abode somewhere on the Edisto, near Givham's, perhaps; or, inclining still north, to the head of Ashley River. Sailing up the river, they encountered a great current, which they followed, to reach the abode of Stalam?. He, too, received the strangers with hospitality and friendship. The intercourse thus established between the party soon assumed the most endearing aspect. The Indian kings took counsel of Albert in all matters of importance. The Frenchmen were called to the conference in the round-house of the tribe, quite as frequently as their own recognized counsellors. In other words, the leaders of the Huguenots were adopted into the tribe, that being the usual mode of indicating trust and confidence. Albert was present at all the assemblages of state in the realm of Audusta; at all ceremonials, whether of business or pleasure; at his great hunts; and at the singular feasts of his religion. One of these feasts, that of TOYA, which succeeded the visit of Albert to the territories of Audusta and the four tributary kings, will call for an elaborate description hereafter, when we narrate the legend of Guernache, upon whose fate that of the colony seems to have depended.

A remark of Charlevoix, which accords with the experience of all early travellers and explorers among the American Indians, is worthy to be kept in remembrance, as enabling us to account for that frequent contradiction which occurs in the naming of places and persons among the savages. He records distinctly that each canton or province of Florida bore, among the red-men, the name of the ruling chief. Now, as a matter of course where the tribes are nomadic, the names of places continually underwent change, according to that of the tribe by which the spot was temporarily occupied.

The intercourse of our Huguenots with Audusta was of vital importance to the former. In the form of gifts, he yielded them a regular tribute of maize and beans, and was easily persuaded to do so by the simple trifles, of little value, which the colonists proffered in return. It is not difficult to win the affections of an inferior people, where the superior is indulgent. Kindness will disarm the hostility of the savage, and justice will finally subdue the jealousy of conscious ignorance. Sympathy in sports and amusements, above all things, will do much towards bringing together tribes who differ in their laws and language, and will make them forgetful of all their differences. The French have been usually much more successful than any other people in overcoming the prejudices of the red-men of America. The moral of their nation is much more flexible than that of the Englishman and Spaniard;--the former serve the name of friend, if in this hour, the last, perhaps, of unrestrained confidence between us, I did not dare--"

"Dare what?" interrupted Anne, shame and resentment kindling in her eye.

"Poor Mrs. Manly," said one, "how much is her destiny to be lamented! To be united to a man who is incapable of appreciating her genius, and even seems guilty of the meanness of annoying her."

For a long time the burning essence was not permitted to mingle with the fountain of maternal tenderness. Even Manly's blasted spirit revived, and Emily hoped all, and believed all. But Anne had once passed the Rubicon, and though she often paused and looked back with yearnings that could not be uttered, upon the fair bounds she had left, the very poignancy of her shame goaded her on, though every step she took, evidenced the shame that was separating her from the affections of a husband whom she loved and respected, and who had once idolized her. It has been said that when woman once becomes a transgressor, her rapid progress in sin mocks the speed of man. As the glacier, that has long shone in dazzling purity, when loosened from its mountain stay, rushes down with a velocity accelerated by its impenetrability and coldness, when any shameful passion has melted the virgin snow of a woman's character, a moral avalanche ensues, destroying "whatsoever is venerable and lovely, and of good report."

Mrs Manly, from the death of her father, came into the possession of a large and independent fortune. She was not sordid enough to deem money an equivalent for a wounded reputation; but it was soothing to her pride, to be able to fill her husband's coffers so richly, and to fit up their new establishment in a style so magnificent. Manly allowed her to exercise her own taste in everything. He knew the effect of external pomp, and thought it was well to dazzle the judgment of the world. He was determined to seek society; to open every source of gratification and rational excitement to his wife, to save her from monotony and solitude. His whole aim seemed to be, "that she might not be led into temptation." If with all these cares for her safety, he could have blended the tenderness that once softened his proud manners, could he have banished from his once beaming eye the look of vigilance and distrust; could she have felt herself once more enthroned in his heart, gratitude might, perhaps, have completed the regeneration begun by remorse. But Anne felt that she was an object of constant suspicion and fear; she felt that he had not faith in her good resolutions. She was no longer the sharer of his counsels--the inspirer of his hopes--or the companion in whom his soul delighted. His ruling passion supported him in society; but in those hours when they were necessarily thrown upon each other's resources, he was accustomed to sit in gloomy abstraction, brooding over his own melancholy thoughts. Anne was only too conscious of the subject of these reveries, and it kept alive a painful sense of her humiliation. She had, hitherto, kept her promise sacred, through struggles known only to herself, and she began to feel impatient and indignant that the reward for which she looked was still withheld. Had she been more deeply skilled in the mysteries of the human heart, she might have addressed the Genius of the household shrine, in the language of the avenging Moor, who first apostrophizes the torch that flares on his deed of darkness:

"If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me--but once put out thine, I know not where is the Promethean heat That can thy light relume."

Mr. Manly was called away by professional business, which would probably detain him many weeks from home. He regretted this necessity; particularly before the arrival of Emily, whose coming was daily expected. He urged his wife to invite some friends to remain as her guests during his absence, to enliven her solitude. His request, so earnestly repeated, might have been gratifying to her feelings, if she had not known the distrust of her faith and strength of resolution it implied. The last words he said to her, at parting, were, "Remember, Anne, everything depends on yourself." She experienced a sensation of unspeakable relief in his absence. The eagle glance was withdrawn from her soul, and it expanded and exulted in its newly acquired freedom. She had a constant succession of visiters, who, remarking the elasticity of her spirits, failed not to cast additional obloquy on Mr. Manly, for the tyranny he evidently exercised over his wife. Emily did not arrive, and Mrs. Manly could not regret the delay. Her presence reminded her of all she wished to forget; for her days of triumph were returned, and the desire of shining rekindled from the ashes of scorn, that had for a while smothered the flame.

It wanted about a week of Mr. Manly's return. She felt a strong inclination to renew the splendours of her party. She had received so many compliments on the subject:--"Mrs. Manly's delightful party!" "Her conversational powers!" "Such a literary banquet!" &c. Invitations were given and accepted. The morning of the day, which was somewhat warm and oppressive, she was summoned by the kitchen council, where the business of preparation was going on. Suddenly, however, they came to a stand. There was no brandy to give flavour to the cake; and the cook declared it was impossible to make it without, or to use anything as a substitute.

Children are liable to so many falls, and bruises, and wounds, it is not strange that Mrs. Manly, in the confused state of her mind, should soon forget the accident, and try to prepare herself for the reception of her guests, who were already assembling in the drawing-room. Every time the bell rung, she started, with a thrill of horror, conscious how unfit she was to sustain the enviable reputation she had acquired. Her head ached almost to bursting, her hands trembled, and a deadly sickness oppressed her. The visions of an upbraiding husband, a scoffing world, rose before her--and dim, but awful, in the dark perspective, she seemed to behold the shadow of a sin-avenging Deity. Another ring--the guests were thronging. Unhappy woman! What was to be done? She would have pleaded sudden indisposition--the accident of her child--but the fear that the servants would reveal the truth--the hope of being able to rally her spirits--determined her to descend into the drawing-room. As she cast a last hurried glance into the mirror, and saw the wild, haggard countenance it reflected, she recoiled at her own image. The jewels with which she had profusely adorned herself, served but to mock the ravages the destroying scourge had made upon her beauty. No cosmetic art could restore the purity of her complexion; nor the costliest perfumes conceal the odour of the fiery liquor. She called for a glass of cordial--kindled up a smile of welcome, and descended to perform the honours of her household. She made a thousand apologies for her delay; related, in glowing colours, the accident that happened to her child, and flew from one subject to another, as if she feared to trust herself with a pause. There was something so unnatural in her countenance, so overstrained in her manner, and so extravagant in her conversation, it was impossible for the company not to be aware of her situation. Silent glances were exchanged, low whispers passed round; but they had no inclination to lose the entertainment they anticipated. They remembered the luxuries of her table, and hoped, at least, if not a "feast of reason," a feast of the good things of earth.

Emily sat down on the side of the bed, and leaned over the sleeping infant. Though Mrs. Manly had assured her there was no cause of alarm, she felt there was no reliance on her judgment; and the excessive paleness and languor of its countenance, excited an anxiety its peaceful slumbers could not entirely relieve. "It is all over," thought she, "a relapse in sin is always a thousand times more dangerous than the first yielding. She is at this moment blazoning her disgrace, and there will be no restraining influence left. Oh! unfortunate Manly! was it for this you sacrificed home, friends, and splendid prospects, and came a stranger to a strange land!" Absorbed in the contemplation of Manly's unhappy destiny, she remained till the company dispersed, and Mrs. Manly dragged her weary footsteps to her chamber. Completely exhausted by her efforts to command her bewildered faculties, she threw herself on the bed, and sunk into a lethargy; the natural consequence of inebriation. The infant, disturbed by the sudden motion, awakened, with a languid cry, expressive of feebleness and pain. Emily raised it in her arms, endeavoured to soothe its complaining; but it continued restless and wailing, till the blood gushed afresh through the bandage. Greatly alarmed, she shook Mrs. Manly's arm, and called upon her to awake. It was in vain; she could not rouse her from her torpor. Instantly ringing the bell, she summoned the nurse, who was revelling, with the other servants, over the relics of the feast, and told her to send immediately for a physician. Fortunately there was one in the neighbourhood, and he came speedily. He shook his head mournfully when he examined the condition of the child, and pronounced its case beyond the reach of human skill. The injury produced by the fall had reached the brain. The very depth of its slumbers was but a fatal symptom of approaching dissolution. The tears of Emily fell fast and thick on the pallid face of the innocent victim. She looked upon its mother--thought upon its father, and pressed the child in agony to her bosom. The kind physician was summoned to another chamber of sickness. He had done all he could to mitigate, where he could not heal. Emily felt that this dispensation was sent in mercy. She could not pray for the child's life, but she prayed that it might die in the arms of its father; and it seemed that her prayer was heard. It was a singular providence that brought him that very night--a week sooner than he anticipated--urged on by a restless presentiment of evil; a dread that all was not well. Imagination, however, had not pictured the scene that awaited him. His wife, clothed in her richest raiments, and glittering with jewels, lying in the deep torpor of inebriation. Emily, seated by the side of the bed, bathed in tears, holding in her lap the dying infant, her dress stained with the blood with which the fair locks of the child were matted. What a spectacle! He stood for a moment on the threshold of the apartment, as if a bolt had transfixed him. Emily was not roused from her grief by the sound of his footsteps, but she saw the shadow that darkened the wall, and at once recognised his lineaments. The startling cry she uttered brought him to her side, where, kneeling down over his expiring infant, he gazed on its altering features and quivering frame with a countenance so pale and stern, Emily's blood ran cold. Silently and fixedly he knelt, while the deepening shades of dissolution gathered over the beautiful waxen features and the dark film grew over the eyes, so lately bright with that heavenly blue, which is alone seen in the eyes of infancy. He inhaled its last, cold, struggling breath; saw it stretched in the awful immobility of death; then slowly rising, he turned towards the gaudy figure that lay as if in mockery of the desolation it had created. Then Manly's imprisoned spirit burst its bonds. He grasped his wife's arm, with a strength that might have been felt, even were her limbs of steel, and calling forth her name in a voice deep and thrilling as the trumpet's blast, he commanded her to rise. With a faint foretaste of the feeling with which the guilty soul shall meet the awakening summons of the archangel, the wretched woman raised herself on her elbow, and gazed around her with a wild and glassy stare. "Woman," cried he, still retaining his desperate grasp, and pointing to the dead child, extended on the lap of the weeping Emily, "woman! is this your work? Is this the welcome you have prepared for my return? Oh! most perjured wife and most abandoned mother! You have filled, to overflowing, the vials of indignation; on your own head shall they be poured, blasting and destroying. You have broken the last tie that bound me--it withers like flax in the flame. Was it not enough to bring down the gray hairs of your father to the grave? to steep your own soul in perjury and shame, but that fair innocent must be a sacrifice to your drunken revels? One other victim remains. Your husband--who lives to curse the hour he ever yielded to a syren, who lured him to the brink of hell!"

Emily was no longer their guest. While Manly lingered between life and death, she watched over him with all a sister's tenderness. Insensible to fatigue--forgetful of sleep--and regardless of food, she was sustained by the intensity of her anxiety; but as soon as his renovated glance could answer her attentions with speechless gratitude, and he became conscious of the cares that had done more than the physician's skill in bringing him back to life, she gradually yielded to others the place she had occupied as nurse--that place, which she who should have claimed it as her right, was incapacitated to fill. When Manly was restored to health, Emily felt that she could no longer remain. There was no more fellowship with Anne; and the sympathy that bound her to her husband she could not, with propriety, indulge. Manly, himself, did not oppose her departure; he felt it was best she should go. She took with her the little Anne, with the grateful consent of her father. The opposition of the mother was not allowed to triumph over what Manly knew was for the blessing of his child. "Let her go," said he, mildly, but determinately; "she will not feel the want of a mother's care."

As Manly gazed upon her features, on which death was already fixing its dim, mysterious impress,--those features whose original beauty was so fearfully marred by the ravages of intemperance,--the waters of time rolled back, and revealed that green, enchanted spot in life's waste, where he was first gilded by her presence. Was that the form whose graceful movements then fascinated his senses; or those the eyes, whose kindling glances had flashed like a glory over his soul? The love, then so idolatrous and impassioned--so long crushed and buried--rose up from the ruins to hallow the vigils of that solemn night.

Another year glided by. The approach of another autumn, found Manly girded for enterprise. He had marked out a new path, and was about to become a dweller of a young and powerful city, born on one of the mighty rivers of the West. His child could there grow up, unwithered by the associations of her mother's disgrace. Amidst the hopes and anticipations gathering around a new home, in a new land, his own spirit might shake off the memories that oppressed its energies. He was still young. The future might offer something of brightness, to indemnify for the darkness of the past.

He once more sought the native place of his unhappy wife; for his child was there, under the cherishing care of Emily Spencer. He passed that ball-room, in whose illuminated walls his destiny was sealed. The chamber selected for the traveller's resting-place was the one where the prophetic dream had haunted his pillow. His brow was saddened by the gloom of remembrance, when he entered the dwelling-place of his child; but when he saw the bright, beautiful little creature, who sprang into his arms, with spontaneous rapture, and witnessed the emotion that Emily strove vainly to conquer, he felt he was not alone in the world: and the future triumphed over the past. He unfolded all his views, and described the new scenes in which he was soon to become an actor, with reviving eloquence.

"Are you going to carry me there too, father?" said the little girl, whose earnest blue eyes were riveted on his face.

"Are you not willing to go with me, my child? or must I leave you behind?"

"I should like to go, if you will take Emily, but I cannot leave her behind," cried the affectionate child, clinging to that beloved friend, who had devoted herself to her with all a mother's tenderness.

"We will not leave her," exclaimed Manly, a warm glow spreading over his melancholy features, "if she will go with us, and bless our western home."

In a beautiful mansion, looking down on one of the most magnificent landscapes unfolded in the rich valley of the West, Manly and Emily now reside. All the happiness capable of being enjoyed around the household shrine is theirs--and the only shade that ever dims their brows, is caused by the remembrance of the highly gifted--but ill-fated Anne.

THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY.

Never shall I forget that moment, when the first ray of light penetrated the long midnight that had shrouded my vision. It was in a darkened apartment. My father, one female friend, and Clinton, the beloved physician--these were around me. Faint, dim, and uncertain, as the first gray of the dawn, was that ray, but it was the herald of coming light, and hailed as a day-spring from on high. A bandage was immediately drawn over my brow, but during the weeks in which I was condemned to remain in darkness, the memory of that dim radiance was ever glimmering round me. There was a figure kneeling, with clasped hands and upraised head, pale and venerable--I knew it was my father's--for the same figure folded me to his heart the next moment, and wept like an infant. There was one with soft flowing outline, and loose robes, by my side,--and bending over me, with eyes gazing down into the mysteries of my being, shadowy but glorious, was he, who received the first glance of the being he had awakened to a new creation. Slowly, gradually was I allowed to emerge from my eclipse, but when I was at last led from my darkened chamber, when I looked abroad on the face of nature, clothed as she was in the magnificent garniture of summer, when I saw the heavens unrolled in their majesty, the sun travelling in the greatness of his strength, the flowers glowing in the beams that enamelled them, I closed my eyes, almost fainting from the excessive glory. I will not attempt to describe my sensations when I first distinctly saw the lineaments of my lover. Creation contained nothing so lovely to my sight. To see the soul, the thinking, feeling, immortal soul, flashing with enthusiasm, or darkening with tenderness, looking forth from his eyes, and feel my own mingling with his! No one but those who have once been blind, and now see, can imagine the intensity of my emotions. Next to my Creator, I felt my homage was due to him, and surely it is not impious to apply to him the sublime language of Scripture--"He said, let there be light, and there was light."

Enlightened by the sentiment in my own bosom, I could not but mark that the hectic flush always became brighter when Clinton approached, that her glance, kindling as it moved, followed his steps with a kind of idolatry. Then she hung upon his words with an attention so flattering. Was she reading, reclining on the sofa, apparently languid and uninterested, the moment he spoke she would close her book, or lean forward, as if fearful of losing the faintest sound of that voice, which was the music of my life. I could have borne this for a day, a week, a month--but to be doomed to endure it for an indefinite term, perhaps for life, it was unendurable. A hundred times I was on the point of going to my father, and, telling him the secret of my unhappiness, entreat him to recall my too encroaching guest, but shame and pride restrained me. Chilled and wounded by my coldness, my husband gradually learned to copy it, and no longer sought the smiles and caresses my foolish, too exciting heart, deemed he no longer valued. Oh! blissful days of early confidence and love! were ye for ever flown? Was no beam of tenderness permitted to penetrate the cold frost-work of ceremony deepening between us? It is in vain to cherish love with the memory of what has been. It must be fed with daily living offerings, or the vestal fire will wax dim and perish--then fearful is the penalty that ensues. The doom denounced upon the virgins of the temple, when they suffered the holy flame to become extinct, was less terrible. Alice, when the mildness of the weather allowed, almost made her home in the garden. She must have felt that I shrunk from her society, and I knew she could not love the wife of Clinton. She carried her books and pencil there--she watched the opening blossoms, and gathered the sweetest, to make her offering at the shrine she loved. My husband was evidently pleased with these attentions, flowing, as he thought, from a gentle and grateful heart, and his glance and voice grew softer when he turned to address the invalid.

Once during the absence of Alice I went into her chamber for a book I had lent her, which contained a passage I wished to recall. I took up several others, which lay upon the table. There was one which belonged to my husband, and in it was a piece of folded paper, embalmed with flowers, like some holy relic. It was not sealed--it was open--it was a medical prescription, written by Clinton, thus tenderly, romantically preserved. On another half-torn sheet were some broken lines, breathing passion and despair. They were in the handwriting of Alice, and apparently original, without address or signature, but it was easy for my excited imagination to supply them. Poor victim of passion--by the side of this record of all my fears was the composing draught, prepared to check the consumptive cough--the elixir to sustain the failing principles of vitality. How is it that we dare to kindle an unhallowed flame, even on the ashes of decaying mortality? I left the chamber, and retired to my own. I knew not in what manner to act. I endeavoured to reflect on what I ought to do. Alice and myself could not live long under the same roof, yet how could I bid her depart, or betray her to my husband? I could not believe such feelings could be excited in her without sufficient encouragement. I laid myself down on the bed, and wished I might never rise again. I closed my eyes, and prayed that the dark fillet of night might rest on them again and forevermore. My cheeks burned as with consuming fire, but it was in my heart. When Clinton returned, not finding me in the drawing-room, he sought me in my own chamber. He seemed really alarmed at my situation. He forgot all his former constraint, and hung over me with a tenderness and anxiety that might have proved to me how dear I was. He sat by me, holding my burning hand, and uttering every endearing expression affection could suggest. Melted by his caresses, I yearned to unbosom to him my whole heart--my pride, my jealousy was subdued. I endeavoured to speak, but the words died on my tongue. Confused images flitted across my brain--then came a dreary blank. For weeks I lay on that bed of sickness, unconscious of everything around me. My recovery was for a long time doubtful--but when I at last opened my languid eyes, they rested on the face of my husband, who had kept his unwearied vigils by my pillow, and still he held my feeble hand in his, as if he had never unloosed his clasp. He looked pale and wan, but a ray of divine joy flashed from his eye as he met my glance of recognition.

Humbled and chastened by this visitation from heaven, renovated by the warm and gracious influences exerted for my restoration, animated by new-born hope, I rose from my sick-bed. The vulture had unloosened its fangs, and the dove once more returned to its nest. I could even pity the misguided girl who had caused me so much unhappiness. I treated her with a kindness, of late very unwonted--but she evidently shunned my companionship, and in proportion as my spirits rose from the weight that had crushed them to the dust, hers became depressed and fitful. Let me hurry on--I linger too long on feelings. Few events have marked my brief history, yet some have left traces that all the waves of time can never wash out.

It was Sunday--it was the first time I had attended church since my illness. My husband accompanied me, while Alice, as usual, remained at home. The preacher was eloquent--the music sweet and solemn--the aspirations of faith warm and kindling. I had never before felt such a glow of gratitude and trust; and while my mind was in this state of devout abstraction, Clinton whispered to me that he was obliged to withdraw a short time, to visit a patient who was dangerously sick--"but I will return," said he, "to accompany you home." My thoughts were brought back to earth by this interruption, and wandered from the evangelical eloquence of the pulpit. The services were unusually long, and my head began to ache from the effort of listening. I experienced the lingering effects of sickness, and feeling that dimness of sight come over me, which was a never-failing symptom of a malady of the brain, I left the church, and returned home, without waiting for the coming of my husband. When I crossed the threshold, my spirit was free from a shadow of suspicion. I had been in an exalted mood--I felt as if I had been sitting under the outspread wings of the cherubim, and had brought away with me some faint reflection of the celestial glory. I was conscious of being in a high state of nervous excitement. The reaction produced by the unexpected scene that presented itself, was, in consequence, more terrible. There, on a sofa, half supported in the arms of my husband, whose hand she was grasping with a kind of convulsive energy, her hair unbound and wet, and exhaling the odorous essence with which it had been just bathed, sat Alice, and the words that passed her lips, as I entered, at first unperceived by them, were these--"Never, never--she hates me--she must ever hate me." I stood transfixed--the expression of my countenance must have been awful, for they looked as if confronted by an avenging spirit. Alice actually shrieked, and her pale features writhed, as the scroll when the scorching blaze comes near it. My resolution was instantaneous. I waited not for explanations--the scene to my mind admitted none. The sudden withdrawal of my husband from church, upon the pretence of an errand of duty, the singular agitation of Alice--all that I saw and heard, filled me with the most maddening emotions--all the ties of wedded love seemed broken and withered, at once, like the withes that bound the awakening giant. "Clinton," exclaimed I, "you have deceived me--but it is for the last time." Before he could reply, or arrest my motions, I was gone. The carriage was still at the door. "Drive me to my father's, directly," was all I could utter, and it was done.

Swiftly the carriage rolled on--I thought I heard my name borne after me on the wind, but I looked not behind. I felt strong in the conviction of my wrongs. It would have been weakness to have wept. My scorn of such duplicity lifted me above mere sorrow. It was in the gloom of twilight when I reached my father's door. I rushed into the drawing-room, and found myself in the arms of my brother. "Cecilia, my sister! what brings you here?" He was alarmed at my sudden entrance, and through the dusky shade he could discover the wild flashing of my eyes, the disorder of my whole appearance. The presence of human sympathy softened the sternness of my despair. Tears gushed violently forth. I tried to explain to him my wretchedness and its cause, but could only exclaim, "Clinton, Alice, cruel, deliberate deceivers!" Henry bit his lip, and ground his teeth till their ivory was tinged with blood, but he made no comments. He spoke then with his usual calmness, and urged me to retire to my chamber, and compose myself before my father's return. He almost carried me there in his arms, soothing and comforting me. He called for an attendant, again whispered the duty and necessity of self-control, then left me, promising a speedy return. I watched for the footsteps of Henry, but hour after hour passed away, and he returned not. I asked the servants where he had gone? They knew not. I asked myself, and something told me, in an awful voice--"Gone to avenge thee." The moment this idea flashed into my mind, I felt as if I were a murderess. I would convince myself of the truth. I knew my brother's chamber--thither I ran, and drawing back the bed curtains, looked for the silver mounted pistols that always hung over the bed's head. They were gone--and a coat dashed hastily on the counterpane, a pocket-book fallen on the carpet, all denoted a hurried departure on some fatal errand. The agony I had previously suffered was light to what pierced me now. To follow him was my only impulse. I rushed out of the house--it was a late hour in the evening--there was no moon in the sky, and I felt the dampness of the falling dew, as I flew, with uncovered head, like an unblessed spirit, through the darkness. My brain began to be thronged with wild images. It seemed to me, legions of dark forms were impeding my steps. "Oh! let me pass," cried I, "it is my husband and brother I have slain. Let me pass," continued I, shrieking, for an arm of flesh and blood was thrown around me, and held me struggling. "Gracious heavens, it is the voice of my Cecilia!" It was my father that spoke. I remember that I recognised him, and that was all. My cries were changed to cries of madness. I was borne back raving. The malady that had so recently brought me to the door of the grave, had renewed its attack with increased malignancy. My brain had been too much weakened to bear the tension of its agony. For long months I was confined within my chamber walls, sometimes tossing in delirious anguish, at others lying in marble unconsciousness, an image of the death they prayed might soon release me from my sufferings. They prayed that I might die, rather than be doomed to a living death. But I lived--lived to know the ruin I had wrought.

My father was a man of majestic person, and time had scarcely touched his raven locks. His hair was now profusely silvered, and there were lines on his brow which age never furrowed. It was long before I learned all that had transpired during this fearful chasm in my existence, but gradually the truth was revealed. All that I was at first told, was, that my husband and brother lived--then, when it was supposed I had sufficient strength to bear the agitation, this letter from my husband was given me.

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