I have not been unmindful of your request for a moment, but have not been able to think of it until now. I hope my good friends (for whose christian-names I have left blanks in the epitaph) may like what I have written, and that they will take comfort and be happy again. I sail on the 7th of June, and purpose being at the Carlton House, New York, about the 1st. It will make me easy to know that this letter has reached you. Faithfully yours. This is the Grave of a Little Child, WHOM GOD IN HIS GOODNESS CALLED TO A BRIGHT ETERNITY WHEN HE WAS VERY YOUNG. HARD AS IT IS FOR HUMAN AFFECTION TO RECONCILE ITSELF TO DEATH IN ANY SHAPE (AND MOST OF ALL, PERHAPS, AT FIRST IN THIS), HIS PARENTS CAN EVEN NOW BELIEVE THAT IT WILL BE A CONSOLATION TO THEM THROUGHOUT THEIR LIVES, AND WHEN THEY SHALL HAVE GROWN OLD AND GRAY, Always to think of him as a Child in Heaven. "_And Jesus called a little child unto Him, and set him in the midst of them._" HE WAS THE SON OF Q---- AND M---- THORNTON, CHRISTENED CHARLES JERKING. HE WAS BORN ON THE 20TH DAY OF JANUARY, 1841, AND HE DIED ON THE 12TH DAY OF MARCH, 1842, HAVING LIVED ONLY THIRTEEN MONTHS AND TWENTY DAYS. [Sidenote: Mr. Henry Austin.] NIAGARA FALLS (English Side), _Sunday, May 1st, 1842._ MY DEAR HENRY, Although I date this letter as above, it will not be so old a one as at first sight it would appear to be when it reaches you. I shall carry it on with me to Montreal, and despatch it from there by the steamer which goes to Halifax, to meet the Cunard boat at that place, with Canadian letters and passengers. Before I finally close it, I will add a short postscript, so that it will contain the latest intelligence. We have had a blessed interval of quiet in this beautiful place, of which, as you may suppose, we stood greatly in need, not only by reason of our hard travelling for a long time, but on account of the incessant persecutions of the people, by land and water, on stage coach, railway car, and steamer, which exceeds anything you can picture to yourself by the utmost stretch of your imagination. So far we have had this hotel nearly to ourselves. It is a large square house, standing on a bold height, with overhanging eaves like a Swiss cottage, and a wide handsome gallery outside every story. These colonnades make it look so very light, that it has exactly the appearance of a house built with a pack of cards; and I live in bodily terror lest any man should venture to step out of a little observatory on the roof, and crush the whole structure with one stamp of his foot.