three months' excursion; and two months after our return, we were made still happier, if possible, by the birth of a son. My wife, always mindful of my feelings, has called him Cyrus, after my poor father; and we are, I trust, bringing him up in the love of his Maker, and in the fear of breaking his commandments. Aunt Martha, as you know, lives with us, and Mr. Porter resides altogether in the stone house, where I was born; we could not do without him. Now that you all know my dear wife, you can easily imagine that my love for her can never diminish; and that, to be separated from her, would be the greatest of evils.
You have asked me to write a memoir of my life; but, after all, what is it? It is only a description of my heart and its feelings; of my early sorrows, and of my deep, deep love for one, whom I still continue to think is far too good—too far above me. Of her unworthy uncle I will not speak; she was his sister's only child, and he could neither appreciate nor love her. All my felicity has arisen from his blindness, and I therefore forgive him. But if there has been nothing remarkable in this memoir, if the events are such as we meet with frequently, surely there is some novelty in the Surprise.
