shining down into this Alpine valley of grief, not as the sun of the
Alps, but as a continual orb of light; not between a few short hours in
a "long, long weary day," but as a constant illumination of the soul,
irradiating its beams out upon the countenances of God's afflicted, and
setting them before mankind as a beacon for groping humanity. I know of
no more perfect expression of the power of sorrow to chasten the soul
and draw it nearer the Maker than is contained in