While we were at dinner, a gentleman called and was shown into the
parlor. We supposed it to be Mr. May; but soon his voice grew familiar,
and my wife was sure it was General Pierce, so I left the table, and
found it to be really he. I was rejoiced to see him, though a little
saddened to see the marks of care and coming age, in many a whitening
hair, and many a furrow, and, still more, in something that seemed to
have passed away out of him, without leaving any trace. His voice,
sometimes, sounded strange and old, though generally it was what it used
to be. He was evidently glad to see me, glad to see my wife, glad to see
the children, though there was something melancholy in his tone, when he
remarked what a stout boy J----- had grown. Poor fellow! he has neither
son nor daughter to keep his heart warm. This morning I have been with
him to St. Peter's, and elsewhere about the city, and find him less
changed than he seemed to be last night; not at all changed in heart and
affections.
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