we all, bald pates and gray heads, young and old, have to begin to fight the battle of life over again. Will and Corbin and Dick and my J.no, he has got his discharge; but you and I, and ours, we all have to begin again; and at what odds! Still, the house is on fire—let's put it out; and then, when it is all over, we can see, not what's best, but what's left. So cheer up, old fellow, let's quit us like men, and trust to God for the rest!
A letter this morning from Rutson Maury of New York . . . dated 6th April. No tidings of my boy. Send it with this to his mother; it is as much to her as to you, as, indeed, are all the letters I write. Her gentleness has blessed us all, for, with God's help, it was her goodness, her teachings, and her example that made my Johnny the lovely character and faultless son that he was.
Believe me ever, dear Brodie,
M. F. M.
His tender heart was wrung by the sufferings endured by his loved ones—at this time refugees (for the third time). He says in a letter to Dr. Tremlett, written from the Duke of Buckingham's palace at Stow:—
. . . . I had a letter to-day, of May 7th, from my daughter Nannie, and she says "Flour has gone to $100 per barrel—too high for us—but meal is cheaper, thank God!". . . "We had for dinner to-day soup made out of nothing, and afterwards a shin. 'Twas good, I tell you; we all dote on shins." And again, from my little Lucy, "Ham and mashed potatoes to-day for dinner; and, as it was my birthday (9th May), Mamma said I might eat as much as I wanted." Here, you see, there is no complaining, but only a gentle lifting of the curtain, which in their devotion and solicitude they have kept so closely drawn before me. With this pitiful picture in my mind's eye, I felt as if I must choke with the sumptuous viands set before me on the Duke's table. Alas, my little innocents!
