MIRIAM'S TESTIMONY.
I do not know why it was that I studied the characters of Miriam and Annie so closely at Madame Orleans' school, for I had known them both from early childhood; we were of the same age, and had lived in the same village, and attended the same schools. I suppose it was partly owing to the fact of my having arrived at a more thoughtful age, or it may be that their peculiarities of disposition exhibited themselves more strongly among strangers. They were neither of them surface characters. Miriam was too reserved, and Annie too artful to be easily understood. But no one who had once known Miriam could, ever forget her. Her parents called her 'a peculiar child;' among her friends the old people called her 'queer,' and the young ones 'cracked,' She was not pretty, but everybody pronounced her a fine-looking girl. Her eyes were the only peculiarity in her face. They were of a rich, dark-gray color, small, and deeply set; but at times—her 'inspired times,' as Annie called them—they would dilate and expand, until they became large and luminous. At such times she would relate with distinctness, and often with minuteness, events which were transpiring in another house, and sometimes in another part of the world.
It was seldom that we had an opportunity of testing the truth of these 'visions,' but when we did we found them exact in every particular.
At other times her mind took a wider range, and she would see into the future. When we were children, I remember the awe with which we used to listen to 'Miriam the prophetess,' as we called her, and the wonder with which we remarked that her prophecies invariably were fulfilled. But, as I grew older, my awe and wonder diminished in proportion, and, being of a very practical turn of mind myself, and very skeptical of spiritual agencies, mesmerism, and clairvoyance, and indeed of anything out of the ordinary course of events, I put no faith whatever in any of Miriam's visions and prophecies; especially as I noticed they only occurred when she was sick, or suffering under depression of spirits. Annie either did believe, or professed to believe, every word she said. As Miriam grew into womanhood it was only to Annie and me that she confided her strange visions, although she well knew I did not believe in their reality. We were the only ones who never laughed at her, and she was very sensitive on the subject.
Annie was so beautiful that it was a delight to look at her lovely face, listen to her musical voice, and watch her graceful motions. She fully appreciated her own charms, and had a way of making others appreciate them also. She had many more friends than Miriam, for who could resist the charm of her face and manner?
She had become quite accomplished, for she possessed a good deal of talent, but was worldly minded, vain, and selfish. It may be matter of surprise that such a girl should have been my intimate friend, and still stranger that she should have been the friend of Miriam; but she was lively and agreeable, and when we were children together we did not care to analyze her character, and when we knew her thoroughly we still loved her—from habit, I suppose. At all events, whatever were the sympathies which bound us together, we continued firm friends until we were eighteen, when we left Madame Orleans' school, where we had resided for four years.
At that time Annie returned to our native village, while Miriam and I went to a Southern city, intending to spend the winter with her uncle's family; but we liked our new home so much that we prolonged our visit two years. After we had been there a few months, by some chance, which I have now forgotten, Henry Ackermann came to the city where we resided. He was a few years older than we, but had been one of our playmates in childhood. His parents had removed from our native village, and gone to California some years before, when the gold fever was at its height, since which time we had heard little about them, and Henry had nearly faded out of our recollections, until now he suddenly appeared, destined to be the controlling fate in the life of one of us, for Miriam and he soon grew to love one another; though what affinity there was between their natures I never could imagine. But he told me that he loved her, and she told me that she was very happy, and I was bound to believe them both, and thought that on the whole they would be a better-matched couple than most of those I saw about me.
It is needless to say much of their courtship. Their engagement was not made public, therefore it was not necessary to make a parade of their affection before indifferent acquaintance, Miriam's love, like that of all proud, reserved natures, was intense. Ackermann's attentions to her were graceful and delicate, and he ever manifested toward her in his whole manner that silent devotion, unobtrusive and indescribable, which is so gratifying to woman. It was evident that he understood her thoroughly: whether he appreciated her as thoroughly was another matter, about which I had my doubts.
It was true that strange rumors had floated from California to our distant little city in regard to Ackermann. Evil rumors they were—they could scarcely be called rumors—nobody repeated them, nobody believed them—and yet they were whispered into the ear so stealthily that it seemed as if they were breathed by the very air which surrounded Ackermann. I paid no heed to them. Miriam heard them, did not care for them—why should I?