* * * * *
Receiving, a few days since, a packet of letters from America, I
opened them with more feeling of hope and good cheer, than for a long
time past. The first words that met my eye were these, in the hand of
Mr. Greeley:--"Ah, Margaret, the world grows dark with us! You grieve,
for Rome is fallen;--I mourn, for Pickie is dead."
I have shed rivers of tears over the inexpressibly affecting letter
thus begun. One would think I might have become familiar enough with
images of death and destruction; yet somehow the image of Pickie's
little dancing figure, lying, stiff and stark, between his parents,
has made me weep more than all else. There was little hope he could do
justice to himself, or lead a happy life in so perplexed a world;
but never was a character of richer capacity,--never a more charming
child. To me he was most dear, and would always have been so. Had he
become stained with earthly faults, I could never have forgotten what
he was when fresh from the soul's home, and what he was to me when my
soul pined for sympathy, pure and unalloyed.
The three children I have seen who were fairest in my eyes, and gave
most promise of the future, were Waldo, Pickie, Hermann Clarke;--all
nipped in the bud.
Pages:
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366