_The Honourable Mrs. Clifton to Frank Henley_
_Rose-Bank_
Sir,
If the praises, prayers, and thanks, of a woman whom disease has robbed
of more than half her faculties, could be of any value, if the
overflowing heart of a mother could but speak its throbs, if admiration
of gifts so astonishing and virtues so divine could be worthy your
acceptance, or could reward you for all the good you have done us, I
would endeavour to discharge the unexampled and unmerited obligation.
But no, sir; you are superior to these. I write not for your sake, but
for my own; that I may endeavour to relieve myself of sensations that
oppress me. I feel it incumbent on me to write; yet what can I say? I
have no words. I despair of any opportunity of retribution: I am aged,
infirm, and feeble. I am going down to the grave; but still I have life
enough to revive and feel a new existence, at the recital of your
virtues!
Forgive this short effusion, from the exuberant heart of a mother, who
wishes but is wholly unable to say how much she admires you.