the exposure, loss, sorrow, turmoil, dangers and terrors of the late
rebellion. But fancy cannot destroy the truth--the real exists in
spite of the ideal, and, as I enter upon my description, faint and
imperfect as it may be, I feel my hand shake with nervous excitement,
my pulse throb faster, my heart beat heavier, as scene after scene of
the great drama passes before me, clear and perfect as when first
enacted. 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. But on the contrary, I will try not to forget the