The plaid that the duke gave him, and
which he valued as one of the chief of his boyish treasures, will hang
in his room--for still we have a room that we call his.
You will understand, you will feel, this sorrow with us as few can. My
poor husband is much prostrated. I need not say more: you know what
this must be to a father's heart. But still I repeat what I said when
I saw you last. Our dead are ministering angels; they teach us to
love, they fill us with tenderness for all that can suffer. These
weary hours when sorrow makes us for the time blind and deaf and dumb,
have their promise. These hours come in answer to our prayers for
nearness to God. It is always our treasure that the lightning strikes.
. . . I have poured out my heart to you because you can understand.
While I was visiting in Hanover, where Henry died, a poor, deaf old
slave woman, who has still five children in bondage, came to comfort
me. "Bear up, dear soul, she said; you must bear it, for the Lord
loves ye." She said further, "Sunday is a heavy day to me, 'cause I
can't work, and can't hear preaching, and can't read, so I can't keep
my mind off my poor children. Some on 'em the blessed Master's got,
and they's safe; but, oh, there are five that I don't know where they
are."
What are our mother sorrows to this! I shall try to search out and
redeem these children, though, from the ill success of efforts already
made, I fear it will be hopeless.
Pages:
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358