I cannot sufficiently thank Mr. B. for the comfort which he has afforded me in Boston, neither Mr. and Mrs. K., my kind host and hostess since Mr. B. left. As regards my convenience and comfort, I have been treated like a princess. But I long for the South, long for a milder climate, and for life with nature. I long also for freer, more expansive views, for the immeasurable prairies, for the wonderful West, the Ohio and the Mississippi. There for the first time they tell me that I shall see and understand what America will become. But this much I do understand of what I hear about the fertility and affluence of this region—that if the millennium is ever to take place on this earth it must be in the valley of the Mississippi, which is said to be ten times more extensive than the valley of the Nile, and capable of containing a population of two hundred and fifty millions of souls.
And now, my little heart, I will give you a bulletin of the manner in which the last days have been spent. I went to Cambridge, accompanied by the estimable Professor P. Little Rose lay shrouded in her coffin, lovely still, but much older in appearance; the father sate at her head and wept like a child; Maria wept too, so quietly, and I wept with them, as you may well believe. The affectionate young couple could weep without bitterness. They are two, they are one in love. They can bow down together and rest. They have both very susceptible feelings, and sorrow therefore takes a deep hold on them. Maria told me that little Mabel—she is three years old—came early in the morning to her bed and said, “Are you lonely now, mamma? (little Rose had hitherto always slept in her mother's bed) shall I comfort you?”
I dined with Professor P., but I was distressed in mind, not well, and not very amiable either; I therefore excused myself from an evening party, and went home.
