I am ever yours
YORK, Thursday, April 24, 1834.
MY DEAR H——,
This will be but a short letter, the first short one you will have received from me since we parted. Dear Dall has gone from us. She is dead; she died in my arms, and I closed her eyes.... I cannot attempt to speak of this now, I will give you all details in my next letter. It has been a dreadful shock, though it was not unexpected; but there is no preparation for the sense of desolation which oppresses me, and which is beyond words.... I wrote you a long letter a few days ago, which will perhaps have led you to anticipate this. We shall probably be in England on the 10th of July.... The sole care of my father, who is deeply afflicted, and charge of everything, devolves entirely on me now.... We left Boston on Tuesday.... I act here to-night for the first time since I lost that dear and devoted friend, who was ever near at hand to think of everything for me, to care for me in every way. I have almost cried my eyes out daily for the last three months; but that is over now. I am working again, and go about my work feeling stunned and bewildered....
I saw Dr. Channing on Monday; he has just lost a dear and intimate connection. With what absolute faith he spoke of her! Gone! to the Author of all good. That which was good must return to Him. It is true, and I believe it, and know it; but at first I was lost.... God bless you, dear H——. We shall meet erelong, and in the midst of great sorrow that will be a great joy to
Yours ever affectionately,
F. A. K.
We have buried dear Dall in a lonely, lovely place in Mount Orban’s Cemetery, where —— and I used to go and sit together last spring, in the early time of our intimacy. I wished her to lie there, for life and love and youth and death have their trysting-place at the grave.
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My aunt died in consequence of an injury to the spine, received by the overturning of our carriage in our summer tour to Niagara.
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I was married in Philadelphia on the 7th of June, 1834, to Mr. Pierce Butler, of that city.
Aberdeen, Lord, Lawrence’s picture of, 217.
Abbot, Mr., his failure as Romeo, 197, 199;
a tumble, 243;
helping Covent Garden, 464.