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Get me to my home, that's in the far distant west, To the scenes of my childhood, that I like the best; There the tall cedars grow, and the bright waters flow, Where my parents will greet me, white man, let me go! Let me go to the spot where the cateract plays, Where oft I have sported in my boyish days; And there is my poor mother, whose heart ever flows, At the sight of her poor child, to her let me go, let me go!

'Your only son,
'PETER VAN WAGENER.'

Since the date of the last letter, Isabella has heard no tidings from her long-absent son, though ardently does her mother's heart long for such tidings, as her thoughts follow him around the world, in his perilous vocation, saying within herself-'He is good now, I have no doubt; I feel sure that he has persevered, and kept the resolve he made before he left home;-he seemed so different before he went, so determined to do better.' His letters are inserted here for preservation, in case they prove the last she ever hears from him in this world.