Had I only the language at my command, as I have the pictures
before me, at my summons--I feel that I could do justice to the
subject. But as I was never destined to be an authoress and my powers
of composition were dealt out to me with a sparing hand, I can but
express my regret that an abler writer does not hold my pen. A cloud
has come over my life-dream. The angel of death passed by and in the
shadow of his wing a heavy and better stroke was dealt. It may not be
of much interest to the public to know how I feel over my loss, but if
each one would, for a moment, suppose the case their own and then
reflect upon what the feeling must be. Let them attempt to write a
cold, matter-of-fact statement of the events, to detail them simply as
they took place, without giving expression to sentiments of sorrow, I
think that, at least, ninety-nine out of every hundred would fail, and
the one who could succeed would appear, in my mind, a person without
heart or feeling, unable to love and unworthy of affection.
I will strive to push on to the end of my undertaking without tiring
my readers, with vain expressions of sorrow, regret or pain; but do
not expect that I can relate the story from first to last, without
giving vent to my feelings.
There is one pleasure, however, in knowing that I have no complaints
to make, no blame to impute, no bitter feelings to arouse, no harsh
words to say.
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