nothing in purse or in expectation.  I anticipated nothing from my legal pursuits, and had done nothing to make me hope for public employment, or political elevation.  I had begun a satirical and humorous work, (The History of New-York,) in company with one of my brothers; but he had gone to Europe shortly after commencing it, and my feelings had run in so different a vein that I could not go on with it.  I became low-spirited and disheartened, and did not know what was to become of me.  I made frequent attempts to apply myself to the law; but it is a slow and tedious undertaking for a young man to get into practice, and I had, unluckily, no turn for business.  The gentleman with whom I studied saw the state of my mind.  He had an affectionate regard for me—­a paternal one, I may say.  He had a better opinion of my legal capacity than it merited.  He urged me to return to my studies, to apply myself, to become well acquainted with the law, and that in case I could make myself capable of undertaking legal concerns, he would take me into partnership with him and give me his daughter.  Nothing could be more generous.  I set to work with zeal to study anew, and I considered myself bound in honor not to make farther advances with the daughter until I should feel satisfied with my proficiency with the law.  It was all in vain.  I had an insuperable repugnance to the study; my mind would not take hold of it; or rather, by long despondency had become for the time incapable of any application.  I was in a wretched state of doubt and self-distrust.  I tried to finish the work which I was secretly writing, hoping it would give me reputation and gain me some public employment.  In the mean time I saw Matilda every day, and that helped distract me.  In the midst of this struggle and anxiety, she was taken ill with a cold.  Nothing was thought of it at first, but she grew rapidly worse, and fell into a consumption.  I can not tell you what I suffered.  The ills that I have undergone in this life have been dealt out to me drop by drop, and I have tasted all their bitterness.  I saw her fade rapidly away—­beautiful and more beautiful, and more angelic to the very last.  I was often by her bedside, and in her wandering state of mind she would talk to me with a sweet, natural, and affecting eloquence that was overpowering.  I saw more of the beauty of her mind in that delirious state than I had ever known before.  Her malady was rapid in its career, and hurried her off in two months.  Her dying-struggles were painful and protracted.  For three days and nights I did not leave the house, and scarcely slept.  I was by her when she died.  All the family were assembled around her, some praying, others weeping, for she was adored by them all.  I was the last one she looked upon.  I have told you as briefly as I could, what, if I were to tell with all the incidents and feelings that accompanied it, would fill volumes.  She was but seventeen years old when she died.