`I do not pretend, my beloved mother—to pour any
consolation into the widowed heart—nay, nor do I dare
to attempt it. There is one Being, and only one, fitted for
that office—the Father of the fatherless—the Husband
of the widow.
`But there is comfort for us. Our father died, foot to
foot, face to face, with the enemy—red with the blood—
of men, shed in sacrifice.
`His hair—I cut from his temples with my own
hand—the smell of the powder is yet upon it—it was
scorched in the blaze, and washed with the heart-blood
of the enemy. Remember that.
`I do not pray the widow to be comforted—the wife
to weep no more:—the mother, to forget the desolation,
that is about her—but—O, my mother, let us turn our
eyes upward—and lay our forehead in the dust—for
whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth.
`My father died, preparedly, in the loud thunder of
battle. May his Children die like him!—
`Farewell!
`My own dear, dear mother, farewell!
`ARCHIBALD.'
