so soon after the writer's death. I am inclined to defer greatly to
his judgment, and still more to his taste, and I have therefore
read the book again to see if I am inclined to alter my mind. I
find that my feeling is the exact opposite of his in every way. I
feel humbly and deeply grateful to the children who have given the
letters to the world. Of course if there had been any idea in the
mind of the writer that they would be published, she would probably
have been far more reticent; but, as it was, she spoke with a
perfect openness and simplicity of all that was in her mind. It is
curious to reflect that I met the writer more than once, and
thought her a cold, hard, unsympathetic woman. She had to endure
many sorrows and bereavements, losing, by untimely death, those
whom she most loved; but the revelation of her pain and
bewilderment, and the sublime and loving resignation with which she
bore it, has been to me a deep, holy, and reviving experience. Here
was one who felt grief acutely, rebelliously, and passionately, yet
whom sorrow did not sear or harden, suffering did not make self-
absorbed or morbid, or pain make callous. Her love flowed out more
richly and tenderly than ever to those who were left, even though
the loss of those whom she loved remained an unfading grief, an
open wound. She did not even shun the scenes and houses that
reminded her of her bereavements; she did not withdraw from life,
she made no parade of her sorrows. The whole thing is so wholesome,
so patient, so devoted, that it has shown me, I venture to say, a
higher possibility in human nature of bearing intolerable
calamities with sweetness and courage, than I had dared to believe.
It seems to me that nothing more wise or brave could have been done
by the survivors than to make these letters accessible to others.
We English people make such a secret of our feelings, are so
stubbornly reticent about the wrong things, have so false and