I wonder how many’s history I am writing now?  The history of the heart, at last, is all the endearing history of waning life.  Recur as we may to every success, to every sorrow, and they whisper a chapter of the heart.  We struggle to make happy those we love.  The gratifications of wealth, ambition, and feeling, all refer to the heart.  There could be no pleasure from these memories if those we loved had not participated in them.  We build a home for her we love, and those who sprout around us.  We win wealth and a name for these, and but for them, all that is innate would be only alloy.  They must reflect the bliss it brings, or it has no sweetness.  Can there be a soul so sordid as to riot in pleasure and triumphs all alone—­to shun companionship, and hate participation in the joys that come of successful life?

I am in the midst of the scenes of my childhood, with here and there one friend left, who shared with me the school-hours, Saturday rambles, and sports of early boyhood.  With these the memories come fresh and vigorous of the then occurring incidents—­the fishings, the Saturday-night raccoon hunts, the forays upon orchards and melon-patches, and the rides to and from the old, country church on the Sabbath; the practical jokes of which I was so fond, and from which even my own father was not exempt.  Kind reader, indulge the garrulity of age, and allow me to recount one of these.  There are a few who will remember it; for they have laughed at it for fifty years.  I never knew my father to tell a fib but upon one occasion in my life.  Under the circumstances, I am sure the kindly nature will, at least, allow it to be a white one.

I am near the old mill my father built, and, if I remember all connected with my boyhood there, I trust there will be few or none to sneer or blame.  The flouring-mill, or mill for grinding grain, and the saw-mill were united under the same roof; and it was the business of father to give his attention, as overseer, not only to the mills, but to his planting interest.  He employed a North Carolina Scotchman—­that is, a man descended of Scotch parents, but born in North Carolina—­to superintend his saw-mill, who had all the industry, saving propensities, and superstitions of his ancestry.  He was a firm believer in spells, second-sights, and ghosts.  Taking advantage of these superstitions, my brother and myself made him the sufferer in many a practical joke.  Upon one occasion, we put into circulation, in the neighborhood, a story full of wonder.  A remarkable spectre had been seen near the mill on dark nights, and especially on those misty nights of murky gloom, common in early spring to this latitude.  Its form was unique and exaggerated, with flaming eyes, and mouth of huge proportions, with long, pointed teeth, white and sharp.  For weeks, this gorgon of my imagination constituted the theme of neighborhood gossip.  Several negroes had seen it, and fled its fierce pursuit, barely escaping its voracious mouth and attenuated claws, through the fleetness of fear.  The old hardshell Baptist preacher, of the vicinage, had proclaimed him from the pulpit as Satan unchained, and commencing his thousand years of wandering up and down the earth.