vi.

dear friend, to whom she owes a debt of gratitude. The scenes of negro life, conversations with Confederate officers, and gentlemen of the Union, &c., are given as they occurred, therefore the author does not hold herself accountable. But she would draw the attention of her readers-firstly, to the devotion of the Southerns in fighting for their homes, families, and what they deemed their rights; secondly, to the noble, god-like, charity of the North-who in the hour of triumph, remembered with mercy her fallen foes, dealing gently with the subdued Confederates. Then, thirdly, think of the freedmen in pitying compassion. Perhaps what the writer would say could not be more efficiently illustrated than by quoting Leigh Hunt's exquisite lines

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase),

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
within the moonlight, in his room,

And saw,

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom

An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold;
And to the presence in the room he said-
'What writ'st thou?' The vision raised its head,
And with a look, made of all sweet accord,
Answered-The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low.
But cheerily still, and said, 'I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great awakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest."

vii.

Lastly, think not of the writer with too severe judgment. Remember, reader, the wounds of recent bereavement are yet unhealed, and the pen almost rebels from performing a painful task; but hope whispers, surely those who, in tender symyathy, passed over the faults of "Amy Athelstone," will likewise think gently, ere they condemn too hardly, the writer of "Galveston."

GALVESTON.

A SEQUEL TO "AMY ATHELSTONE."

CHAPTER I.

CAPTAIN ST. JOHN AND HIS PASSENGERS.

AMIDST numerous vessels lying at anchor in the Queen's Basin, Liverpool, on Saturday evening, July 27th, 1867, was a splendid barque named the Trade Wind, employed in the merchant service. Her sails were readytrimmed, the British flag floated proudly from the main mast-head, and upon the faces of the crew seemed plainly written the announcement of "Ready for Sea." Such, in fact, was the case, the noble vessel only waited for the presence of its commanding officers and two passengers; but as those passengers were but females, we may naturally conclude the Trade Wind could have held its onward course as well without as with them. Such, however, was not decreed, for as Captain St. John leisurely walked towards the entrance of the dock, in order to board his vessel, a carriage drew up, from the window of which the head of a gentleman was protruded, who hailed Mr. St. John. A few words of explanation passed between them, the Captain approached the side of the conveyance, raised his hat, extended his hand, and said

"My passengers, I presume."

The parties addressed looked anxiously at Captain St. John, and, I think, I may justifiably assert that Captain St. John looked inquiringly at them.

"What about these boxes, Captain?" said the gentleman who had hailed him from the carriage.

"Boxes-baggage-ladies!" and the Captain heaved a

deep sigh.

"How must I get them on board?" persisted the former speaker.

"Oh! never fear, I will attend to them," replied Captain St. John; nevertheless he turned away with an expression which, could it have been converted into words, might have sounded something like—

Boxes, luggage, and women, I wonder whatever we shall do with them on board ship?"

The sisters-for such was the relationship between the passengers-glanced after the receding figure of Captain St. John, and then gave the mutual verdict of—

"A kind heart, and a true friend."

'Now, ladies, I have given orders respecting your boxes. Please step this way," said the Captain, as he returned to the carriage.

"Thank you, sir."

Captain St. John looked still more anxiously at his passengers as they alighted from the conveyance, and the rays of the declining sun rested upon faces marked by care and lingering sickness, or it might be with deep and recent sorrow, and, as he gazed, the whole expression of his countenance changed into one of kindly sympathy.

"Are you afraid of water?" he inquired.

"Not at all, sir."

"That is well. Now give me your hand please, this plank is to be crossed."

"Is this ship the Trade Wind?" asked Amy, the elder

sister.

"No. She lies three from the dock; you will have to cross this and the next vessel before you board her."

"All right, sir.”

The Captain looked again, then said—