An hour ago I should have called him
"poor fellow," and wished that he had had a more robust kind of
fibre; now that I know he is dead, I cannot find it in my heart to
wish him any such qualities. His life appears to me utterly
beautiful and fragrant. He never incurred any taint of grossness
from prosperity or success; he never grew indifferent or hard; and
in the light of his last passage, such a failure seems the one
thing worth achieving, and to carry with it a hope all alive and
rich with possibilities of blessing and glory. He would hardly have
called himself a Christian, I think; he would have said that he
could not have attained to anything like a vital faith or a hopeful
certainty; but the only words and thoughts that haunt my mind about
him, echoing sweetly and softly through the ages, are the words in
which Christ described the tender spirits of those who were nearest
to the Father's heart, and to whom it is given to see God.
July 28, 1889.
Health of body and mind return to me, slowly but surely. I have
given up all attempt at writing; I rack my brain no longer for
plots or situations. I keep, it is true, my note-book for subjects
beside me, and occasionally jot down a point; but I feel entirely
indifferent to the whole thing.
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