It is
curious to reflect that I met the writer more than once, and
thought her a cold, hard, unsympathetic woman. She had to endure
many sorrows and bereavements, losing, by untimely death, those
whom she most loved; but the revelation of her pain and
bewilderment, and the sublime and loving resignation with which she
bore it, has been to me a deep, holy, and reviving experience. Here
was one who felt grief acutely, rebelliously, and passionately, yet
whom sorrow did not sear or harden, suffering did not make self-
absorbed or morbid, or pain make callous. Her love flowed out more
richly and tenderly than ever to those who were left, even though
the loss of those whom she loved remained an unfading grief, an
open wound. She did not even shun the scenes and houses that
reminded her of her bereavements; she did not withdraw from life,
she made no parade of her sorrows. The whole thing is so wholesome,
so patient, so devoted, that it has shown me, I venture to say, a
higher possibility in human nature of bearing intolerable
calamities with sweetness and courage, than I had dared to believe.
It seems to me that nothing more wise or brave could have been done
by the survivors than to make these letters accessible to others.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225