"Rowland!" she screamed, "you have come from California. You aided in murdering him. Ha! It was you who insulted him in the hour of death, by calling him father. O God! it was you." The idea of my insulting Mathew Leary, by calling him father, seemed to me the most wonderful and original conception, that ever emanated from the human mind. "Ha!" continued my mother, hissing cut the words. "It was you that gave the word to the others--the word that brought him to death? You are a murderer! You are not my son! I curse you! Take my curse and begone! No, don't go yet! Wait 'till I've done with you!" As she said this, she made a rush at me; and, before I could get beyond her reach, a handful of hair was plucked from my head! When finally hindered from farther assailing me, she commenced dragging out her own hair, all the while raving like a maniac! She became so violent at length, that it was found necessary to tie her down; and, acting under the orders of a physician, who had been suddenly summoned to the house, I took my departure--leaving poor Martha, weeping by the side of a frantic woman, whom we had the misfortune to call mother. How long to me appeared the hours of that dreary night. I passed them in an agony of thought, that would have been sufficient punishment, even for Mr Leary--supposing him to have been possessed of a soul capable of feeling it. I actually made such reflection while tossing upon my sleepless couch! It had one good effect; it summoned reason to my aid; and I asked myself: Why was I not like him, with a soul incapable of sorrow? What was there to cause me the agony I was enduring? I was young, and in good health: why was I not happy? Because my mother had gone mad with grief for the death of a wicked man? Surely that could be no cause for the misery I myself suffered, or should not have been to a person of proper sense? My mother had been guilty of folly, and was reaping its reward. Why should I allow myself to be punished also? It could not aid her: why should I give way to it? "But your sister is also in sorrow," whispered some demon into the ear of my spirit, "and how can you be happy?" "So are thousands of others in sorrow, and ever will be," answered reason. "Let those be happy who can. The fool who makes himself wretched because others are, will ever meet misery, and ever deserve it." Selfish reason counselled in vain: for care had mounted my soul, and could not be cast off. Volume Two, Chapter XVIII. A MELANCHOLY END. The next morning, I was forbidden by the physician to come into my mother's presence. He said, that her life depended on her being kept tranquil; and he had learnt enough to know, that nothing would be more certain to injure her than the sight of myself. He feared that she would have an attack of brain fever, which would probably have a fatal termination.