In this volume there is so much gloom!
Suffering and death have met us so often! Can you wonder, my dear
reader, that the historian of such an epoch longs to escape, when he
can, from the gloom of the tragedy, and paint those scenes of comedy
which occasionally broke the monotonous drama? To write this book is
not agreeable to me. I wear out a part of my life in composing it. To
sum up, in cold historic generalities that great epoch would be
little--but to enter again into the hot atmosphere; to live once more
that life of the past; to feel the gloom, the suspense, the despair of
1865 again--believe me, that is no trifle! It wears away the nerves,
and tears the heart. The cheek becomes pale as the MS. grows! The
sunshine is yonder, but you do not see it. The past banishes the
present. Across the tranquil landscape of March, 1868, jars the cannon,
and rushes the storm wind of March, 1865!
The cloud was black above, therefore, but Katy Dare made the world
bright with her own sunshine, that day. All the way to Petersburg, she
ran on in the most charming prattle. The winding Boydton road, like the
banks of the lower Rowanty, was made vocal with her songs--the "Bird of
Beauty" and the whole repertoire. Nor was Tom Herbert backward in
encouraging his companion's mirth.
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