letter by me, but will quote from memory what she wrote in it: "I have
no bad, terrifying dreams. At midnight, when I happen to awake, the
nurse sleeping by the side of me, with the noise of the poor mad people
around me, I have no fear. The spirit of my mother seems to descend and
smile upon me, and bid me live to enjoy the life and reason which the
Almighty has given me. I shall see her again in heaven; she will then
understand me better. My grandmother, too, will understand me better,
and will then say no more, as she used to do, 'Polly, what are those
poor crazy, moythered brains of yours thinking of always?'" Poor Mary!
my mother indeed _never understood_ her right. She loved her, as she
loved us all, with a mother's love; but in opinion, in feeling and
sentiment and disposition, bore so distant a resemblance to her daughter
that she never understood her right,--never could believe how much _she_
loved her, but met her caresses, her protestations of filial affection,
too frequently with coldness and repulse. Still, she was a good mother.
God forbid I should think of her but _most_ respectfully, _most_
affectionately. Yet she would always love my brother above Mary, who was
not worthy of one tenth of that affection which Mary had a right to
claim. But it is my sister's gratifying recollection that every act of
duty and of love she could pay, every kindness (and I speak true, when I
say to the hurting of her health, and most probably in great part to the
derangement of her senses) through a long course of infirmities and
sickness she could show her, she ever did. I will some day, as I
promised, enlarge to you upon my sister's excellences; 't will seem like
exaggeration, but I will do it. At present, short letters suit my state
of mind best. So take my kindest wishes for your comfort and
establishment in life, and for Sara's welfare and comforts with you. God
love you; God love us all!

C. LAMB.