Within a few weeks the pure and lofty spirit to whom these words were
addressed was called hence, and the following letter was written:--
SHEFFIELD, Dec. 17, 1856.
MY DEAR MRS. PEABODY,--Do you not know why I dread to write to you, and
yet why I cannot help it? Since last I spoke to you, such an event has
passed, that I tremble to go over the abyss and speak to you again. But
you and your children stand, bereft and stricken, on [245] the shore,
as it were, of a new and strange world,--for strange must be the world
to you where that husband and father is not,--and I would fain express
the sympathy which I feel for you, and my family with me. Yet not with
many words, but more fitly in silence, should I do it. And this letter
is but as if I came and sat by you, and only said, "God help you," or
knelt with you and said, "God help us all;" for we are all bereaved in
your bereavement.
True, life passes on visibly with us as usual; but every now and then
the thought of you and him comes over me, and I exclaim and pray at
once, in wonder and sorrow.
But the everlasting succession of things moves on, and we all take
our place in it-now, to mourn the lost, and now, ourselves to be
mourned--till all is finished. It is an Infinite Will that ordains it,
and our part is to bow in humble awe and trust.
I had a letter once, from a most lovely woman, announcing to me the
death of her husband, a worthless person; and she spoke of it with
no more interest than if a log had rolled from the river-bank and
floated down the stream. What do you think of that,--with affections,
venerations, loves, sympathies, swelling around you like a tide?
I know that among all these there is an unvisited loneliness which
nothing can reach. May God's peace and presence be there!
I could not write before, being from home. I do not write anything now,
but to say to you and your dear children, "God comfort you."
From your friend,