Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: December 24, 1862

Christmas Eve: How different the scene our house presents tonight, and this time last year! Then every one of Mr. P.'s children was here, except Frank; himself only absent; the utmost hilarity reigned. We had a beautiful Christmas tree, filled with innumerable presents for everybody, servants and all. The Library was a scene of innocent gayety. Dear Willy P. distributed the contents of the tree, as his Father had done the year before. Everybody was pleased and happy. The war had not then claimed any victim from our circle, and the chief shadow that for that night rested upon us was Mr. P.'s absence in the army. Now the sadness of the household forbids any recognition of Christmas; we are scattered to our own separate rooms to mourn over the contrast, and the Library is in darkness. Willy, whose genial face rises so brightly before me, lies in a distant grave — cut off by a violent death. Randolph's coffin has been carried out of the house so recently that no sunshine has yet come back. Frank is here with his one arm, making me feel perpetually grieved for him. Yet why complain? This is nothing to what many others have suffered. My husband and children are spared to me, so that I have peculiar cause for gratitude. I have been permitted to hear of my father's and sisters' and brothers' welfare, too. Surely it does illy become me to utter lamentations. Rather let me bless God that his rod has been laid on me so lightly.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 157-8

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