I feel that I must pour out my sorrows to someone, and whom else can I look to but to one who, ever faithful and true, has had my whole heart from my youth till now? This has been one of the dark and sad days of my life. The remains of my lost friend Mr. Pope came down on the cars this morning. I met them alone at the depot, except Gus. Baldwin and the hired hands. This evening I accompanied the remains to the boat. Oh, it was so sad to see one whom so many people professed to love, in a strange place, conveyed by hirelings and deposited like merchandise among the freight of a steamboat on the way to his long home. I can scarcely write now, at the thought, through the blindness of my own tears. As I saw him placed in the appointed spot among the strangers and bustle of a departing boat, careless of who or what he was, I stole away to the most retired part of the boat, to conceal the weakness of friendship and relieve my overburdened heart with a flood of tears. I felt it would be a profanation of friendship even to be seen to feel in such a crowd. But for my overwhelming duty to the living I would have taken the boat and gone on with his remains. This is the end of the just in this world. He was a good and an upright man; never gave offense to a human being. His family are ruined, but his only fault was want of judgment, and too great confidence in his kind. He could not make money, and it really seemed that his every effort to do so plunged him deeper into debt. His great fault was a concealment of his own difficulties and trials. I would have done anything to have relieved them upon a full disclosure. He was idolized at home, and I have wept at the sorrows of the poor people in his employment, upon the very mention of his death. I know I cannot control my grief and am sensitive of my own weakness. I could not find relief without pouring out my sorrows to you. There let them rest. Yours, TOOMBS.