Dear Sir: Your letter of inquiry lies before me, supplying more information than I shall be able to give you. Ours is a Boston family, where my father and grandfather both resided. We were six brothers and four sisters, all of whom lived to their maturity, but of whom only five now survive. The eldest of these was Rev. Jotham Horton, of whom you inquire, who died in Boston, in Feb., 1853. His son, Rev. Jotham Horton, died, a martyr to freedom, by the mob spirit in New Orleans, some years ago. Our father's name was Jotham, who was a ship-smith, and did the iron work of the historic frigate Constitution.

Our family being large, my parents allowed me to go into the country (Worcester County), at the early age of seven. I was educated a paper-maker previous to entering upon a course of liberal education. Thus separated from home, I had less knowledge of our ancestry than might otherwise have been the case. Supposing that my surviving brother at Mobile has better information regarding our ancestry than I have, I take the liberty of forwarding your letter to him, requesting him to supply any intelligence he may have at hand. He having been long a resident there, and loyal to the Union, is an ex-Mayor of the city, appointed by Gen. Pope, and is at present, happily for him, Judge of Probate for the County. His address is "Hon. Gustavus Horton, Mobile, Alabama." From him you will probably hear soon. Wishing you much success in your laudable investigations, and quite willing to recognize any of our cousins in the Keystone State,

The Rev. Francis Horton, writer of the foregoing letter, was one of the excellent of the earth. He was a scholar and quite a poet, and an able and much loved minister of the Word. He died in 1873. It is highly probable that he was a descendant of Joshua I.

In connexion with this, we give the following thrilling article, which was published in the Boston Watchman and Reflector, soon after the barbarous murder of the Rev. Jotham Horton:

"Good-by, Emma," he said, "I shall not be gone long. It can't take more than ten minutes to open the Convention, and then I shall come right away. Look for me at three o'clock, at farthest," and the young pastor kissed his wife and hurried away to the city.

That day was destined to be one among the most memorable in the annals of human wickedness since the famous St. Bartholomew's. The members of the Union Convention had looked forward to it with apprehension. They knew that the spirit of the late rebellion still survived in New Orleans, and they could not hope that they should be permitted to assemble without some molestation from disorderly individuals, but they had no suspicions that the masses of the city would rise against them, organized for deliberate bloodshed. They did not know that all the arms had been bought up, till the gun-shops contained not so much as a pocket-pistol. They did not know that the Mayor had telegraphed to the President that there would certainly be a riot, and had received the assurance that the military would not interfere with the civil power. They did not know that the police force had been increased by the addition of a gang of blood-thirsty men, and that the municipal authorities had agreed upon signals, and arranged to begin the riot themselves. Watched by no suspicion, and awed by no Butler's strong right hand, the conspirators were suffered to perfect their preparations, and when the morning of the 30th of July dawned, the treacherous officials appeared at the station-house fully armed, and waiting the opportunity for their bloody work.

The pastor of the Colleseum Baptist Church, Rev. Jotham W. Horton, had been requested to open the Convention with prayer. Moved by the warmest Christian sympathy for the freedmen, this young New England minister had gone to the South with his wife, to give his best energies to their welfare. He was a man of sincere piety and a large heart; pure as a little child, self-denying where duty was concerned to an extent that often made him suffer, and so peaceable that though repeatedly insulted, and even once fired upon, and though conscious that he was fatally marked by malignant disloyalists, he would never go armed.

After taking leave of his wife, Mr. Horton proceeded in the cars from his residence in Carrolton to the city. Ever apt to look hopefully on the worst prospects, and slow to suspect evil of his fellow-men, he had felt no fears of injury for this day, beyond perhaps a forcible seizure and commitment to the parish prison.

The hour arriving for opening the Convention, and Mr. Horton having entered the hall, stood up to offer prayer just as the clock struck twelve. Strongly and fervently his words came up, breathing petitions for the peace of his country and the deliverance of the oppressed. God heard him, but with that prayer His servant's work ended, and then He gave him for a little while to the cruel wrath of his enemies, that He might make that wrath praise Him. Immediately on the sounding of the stroke of noon from the city clocks, and simultaneously with the opening of Mr. Horton's prayer, the armed police filed out of the several stations, three hundred strong, and marched toward the Institute. Some of them entered the hall during the prayer, a mob in the meantime rapidly collecting round the door, and hardly had the good man uttered the closing "amen" when a miscreant fired a bullet at his head.

There could be no longer any doubt of the intentions of the officers and the mob. The latter assailed the windows and crushed in at the doors. "Kill him! kill him!" they yelled. "Shoot every cursed Yankee in the house!" Just then all the bells in the city began to toll. It was the preconcerted signal of slaughter, and now the horrors of the day began.

The disloyalist ruffians rushed in with pistols, knives and clubs, and commenced their appointed work of murder. Resistance was hopeless. The Convention broke up in the wildest confusion, some of its members falling dead, and many mortally wounded in the hall, while a few who could, fled. The Union men saw that they were doomed. Instead of protecting them, and arresting the rioters at the firing of the first shot, as with their force they could easily have done, the police headed the attack, and there is reason to believe that one of their number fired the first shot.

Mr. Horton received five balls in his body, and fell. These balls were fired by policemen. Not satisfied with their work, they seized him, battered his head with their billies, stabbed him, kicked and dragged him on the pavements to the first station, the mob following behind, cursing, beating and trampling him with their shoes. Thrusting him into a cell, he was left mangled and senseless.

Meantime the shopkeepers of the city had closed their stores, and strolled about, gratified spectators of the fiendish carnival, greeting the murderers of Horton, and every squad of policemen that passed them dragging a bleeding loyalist, with shouts of "Good! good! Kill the white nigger."

Around the Mechanics' Institute and in the adjacent streets upwards of one hundred negroes lay weltering in their blood, and the dead carts drove by loaded with warm corpses and bodies of the wounded still writhing with life, all tumbled indiscriminately together.

In one of these carts the mangled Horton was flung, after lying awhile at the station-house, and under a stifling load of dead and wounded negroes, his stomach crushed in by a blow of a heavy plank, he was taken to the Marine Hospital.

Furious with the taste of blood, the police and their fellow Thugs raged up and down some of the streets of the city, calling out the names of well-known loyalists, declaring their intention to slaughter every Union man in New Orleans. In the midst of the excitement and carnage, the bayonets of Federal troops appeared, and further murder was prevented. The mob dispersed, and the blood-stained streets, and battered windows, and muffled groans from distant hospital wards alone testified to the horrors of the 30th of July.

As the hours of that bloody day passed, the wife of Mr. Horton waited at her home, five miles distant, for his return. Three o'clock came, the limit he had set for his absence. She looked long and anxiously to catch a glimpse of him approaching along the familiar street. He did not come, and her anxiety grew into alarm. To add to her terror, a breathless messenger arrived at her residence, and warned her that she would not be safe there that night, for trouble had happened at the State-House, and the secessionists were searching for all the Unionists in the city and suburbs. Hastily summoning the negro servant, she told her to bar the doors and windows, and with a few hurried preparations then set off for the city, to learn the fate of her husband.

Having formerly boarded with a Mrs. E——, she took her way first to her house, and made known her anxious errand. She was told of the riot and massacre, and at once feared the worst. Several young men who boarded at the house volunteered to search for Mr. Horton. They returned late in the evening, but could give her no news, save that he had been badly wounded. They dared not communicate their own convictions of his fate.

Only the darkness of the dangerous streets and the restraint of friends prevented the almost distracted woman from going forth that night to continue the search herself. As it was, the night brought no sleep to her eyes, and as soon as it was morning she started on her sad errand.

Information had been received through the city papers that Gen. Baird, the military commandant, had released all who had been arrested and confined by the police, giving the name of her husband among the rest, and stating that he had returned home. Acting on this representation, she went alone to Carrolton, but only to return by the next train. He was not there. Without waiting for breakfast she set off for Gen. Baird's headquarters; a young Methodist clergyman, Mr. Henry, one of Mrs. E——'s boarders, insisting on being her company.

No sooner did Gen. Baird see Mrs. Horton and knew who she was, than he expressed much surprise that her husband had not been seen, and told her he had ordered his release. Perhaps she would find him at the City Hall. To this place she immediately went, but she searched in vain. He had not been there. She then hurried to the First Police Station, determined to wring from the brutal officers a confession of what they had done with her husband. Entering the office, she forced her way within the rails, and asked of the clerk what had been done with her husband. The man declared that "Preacher Horton" had been sent by him to Charity Hospital, and she at once hurried thither. Again she was disappointed. He had not been seen there! (The truth was, the cart which carried Mr. Horton's body had stopped there, and been sent away, as it appeared to be occupied only by blacks.) The horrible idea now suggested itself to the afflicted woman that her husband had been conveyed away with a load of dead bodies, and had been buried alive, but, as a last resort, she determined to visit the Marine Hospital. This was in a low and distant part of the city, and devoted entirely to negroes, and she could not have believed he would be carried there by his worst enemies, but at a friend's suggestion she sought the place, still accompanied by Mr. Henry.

Arrived at the gate, she was refused entrance, but catching a glimpse of Dr. Harris, the head surgeon, whom she knew, she called to him, and asked him if her husband was there. Dr. Harris could give her no positive assurance, but immediately ordered the servant to admit her. Forgetting her weariness in her joy that her long quest had at last succeeded, the faithful woman bounded up the steps, and without waiting to be directed, rushed in among the patients, found out her husband, and sank exhausted upon his bosom. What a spectacle! The form she loved a bruised and helpless mass of flesh and blood, his head swollen to the size of two, his left arm useless, and his right shattered and mangled. He moved perpetually about with the restless, nervous gestures of a dreaming infant. So badly trampled and beaten was his head and face that his eyes were blinded, and a painful retching, produced by the injuries to his stomach, obstructed his breath and speech. But through all the anguish and darkness of his wreck he knew his wife. That she should have recognized him is a miracle to all who do not understand the inspired sagacity of a wife's affection.

"Wipe my face, Emma," he gasped, as if she had been bending over him ever since he fell.

Worn and broken-hearted, the poor woman sat down by her husband's side, and tried to strengthen herself for the task of soothing and comforting his last hours, for she knew too well that he could not live. Nineteen long hours she had searched for him, and now to find him thus!

Few comforts were to be found in that hospital, though the attendants, seeing her distress, evidently meant to treat her kindly. Up to this time the wounded man had lain in the warden's room, but on the next morning, which was Wednesday, he was removed to a more airy apartment. The operation of trepanning was then performed on his head, though with little hope of permanent benefit. When this was over, and the burden upon his brain was thus relieved, the sufferer looked up and repeated,

Here weakness prevented him, and he whispered to his wife,

"You finish it."

He slept a good deal, but seemed always conscious of his wife's presence, frequently putting up his restless hand to touch her face, and remind himself, in his blindness, of her loved features. When he talked, it was of his unfinished work, his conviction of the justice of the cause in which he fell, his anxieties for his wife, left alone in a cruel world, and of his enemies and murderers always forgivingly, as if they knew not what they did. At different times, too, he spoke of the riot, relating facts and incidents as I have set them down.

It afflicted him much to leave his wife penniless. He had had a little money in his pocket when he came to the Convention, but that, with the gold studs in his bosom, had been plundered by some of the ruffians who took part in mutilating his person.

Thus he lingered until the sixth day after his injury. When the morning of Sunday, the 5th of August, came, he remembered that he had an appointment to exchange pulpits with a colored brother in the city, and said,

"Emma, we must send word to Bro. Miles that I can't come. I don't feel quite well enough to preach."

As time went on, his mind began to wander, and he fancied himself in his own pulpit. He invoked the Divine blessing, he gave out a hymn and sung, wounded and suffering as he was; his wife, who wept as she thought of the melody of his own fine voice, joining him at his request, half choked by her tears. Then he prayed with her, sung again, and preached, taking for his text, "Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." After these exercises, he expressed his wish to close with the Lord's Supper, and immediately began the beautiful ceremony. His wife, anxious to gratify him, skilfully aided with such meagre conveniences as were at hand, to carry out his touching fancy. He partook with her what seemed to him the symbolic bread and wine.

"We both drink from the same cup, Emma," said he.

Another hymn, a benediction, and the sufferer began to grow weak, as if, indeed, his work was done.

"I am going now, Emma," he whispered. "I'm sorry you can't come with me. In the fall you'll come."

Then there were no more connected sentences, but incoherent syllables of prayer, and whispers of saintly hope, "In the vale—the vale—home yonder—good-by," and at six o'clock that Sabbath evening the gentle-spirited Horton fell asleep in Jesus.

Thus perished a martyr to freedom and equal rights, as sincere and pure a man as God ever welcomed "through great tribulation" to the immortal pleasures of His presence.

To the tender consideration of her friends, never so numerous as now, and to the merciful consolation of Almighty God, who never pitied her as He now pities her, we commend the weeping widow, and pray that she may long live to share the honor of her martyred husband's fame.

My Dear Sir: I have received several copies of the "San Diego Union," the last No., April 30, also a copy of the "World," March 20th, which contains a picture of San Diego. Also a sketch of the city on a small sheet, which gives an account of the origin of the new city, and of your relation to it as the founder and the source of its enterprise.

For these favors I desire to express my cordial thanks. The growth of your new city is indeed wonderful, and a brilliant future is certain to come. Were I a young man, the temptation would be strong to cross the continent and join in your great enterprise. But my future is short, and must be devoted to the commemoration of the past.

It has so happened that in my work as the genealogist of my native town of Union, I have recently devoted special efforts to the two families of Horton and Burleigh. Dr. Horton, of Terrytown, Pa., proposes to publish the annals of the Horton family in this country, nearly all of whom are the posterity of Barnabas, who came from England.

I have in charge the genealogy of Rev. Ezra Horton, your grandfather, and have nearly completed the collection of nearly all his descendants of the fourth generation (to which you belong), from Rev. Ezra, of Union. I have the names, with dates of birth, of three of your father's children who (including yourself) were born in Union. The rest of your father's family I have not. I desire very much to obtain a complete list of all the children of your father's family, with date of births, marriages, and deaths, so far as possible. I understand that your father is still living, though at an advanced age. I have an obituary notice of your mother, published in a San Diego paper soon after her death, a year ago last March.

Rev. Lucien Burleigh, the son of Rinaldo Burleigh, of Plainfield, Conn., is endeavoring to obtain a complete record of all the descendants of John Burleigh, the first comer of the name to which your mother belonged. Your mother was first cousin to Rinaldo Burleigh, who was a long time Principal of Plainfield Academy, and the father of a number of sons who are well known as writers, and as editors.

I visited Union last week, and saw my uncle, Capt. Chauncey Paul, and his wife, whose name before marriage was Polly Armour, daughter of John Armour. They both recollect your father and mother. John Armour was a near neighbor of Mr. Jacob Burleigh, and the children of the families grew up together.

The effort of Rev. Lucien Burleigh will result in obtaining full accounts of all branches of his family. I was able to give him a full account of the children of the first comer, John, and his wife, Meriam Fuller, whose ancestry I have traced far back among the early settlers of Willington and Ashford, in Conn., and in Rehoboth, Mass.

My interest in the two families of Horton and Burleigh, arises not from the recent efforts to procure genealogies of those two families by parties specially interested. I have long been engaged in collecting facts pertaining to the history of Union, my native town. I have made it a point to study the history of all the early settlers and long residents. I have traced the ancestry of very many back to England and Scotland, through the Scotch-Irish emigration, which took place nearly one hundred and sixty years ago. Very many of the early settlers of Union were Scotch-Irish—as the Pauls, the Lawlors, the Moores, the Armours, the Crawfords, the McNalls, and others who, like all the race, were genuine Scotch in their character, and were among the best of the emigrants of the olden times. They were not connected at all with the modern or ancient Irish race.

The Hortons, Burleighs, and Laflins were genuine Englishmen in their ancestry. So were the Fosters, the Badgers, the Sessions, the Newells, the Loomises, the Abbotts, and the Waleses.

From that little town, a great many enterprising emigrants have gone forth to people the mighty West. The people of Union, in respect to enterprise and education, are higher than the average emigration of towns in Connecticut and Massachusetts. My long and patient explorations into the history of Union, has led me to such results as that I am not ashamed of the fame or the name of my native town.

Having lost all my own children, and always cherishing a sincere regard for the people of Union, I determined long ago to find out all I could of their history and the fortunes of their descendants.

The old town holds its own in population and in valuation. I have a good memory of all who have lived there during the last half century, and I think the town is as respectable now as it was in my childhood. Some of the worthy names of the olden time have wholly gone; though the descendants of some remain.

It is an interesting circumstance, that from that little town you have gone forth, and on the other side of the new world have laid the foundations of a great city. Thus New England has sent forth its best mind and muscle to build up new States in this greatest Empire of freemen the sun has ever shone upon.

New England was founded by the best people of Old England and Scotland. I like to look back, and also forward. It is well that all parts of our great country can be able to trace their origin to common sources. Great as are the intervening distances in time and space which separate the different generations, yet are they not wholly severed in interest, nor ought they to be separated in sympathy. I hope that my long studies in relation to the families of my native town, will be of some benefit in making those of the same name somewhat acquainted with each other; or at least it will prevent those who are of kindred race and blood from utter forgetfulness of each other.

The Rev. Mr. Hammond, writer of the foregoing letter, is, and has been for many years past, the Principal of Monson Academy. His work is nearly ready for the press. Prof. Hammond kindly furnished us the records of the descendants of the Rev. Ezra Horton, of Union, which will also appear more fully in his history of Union.