Never human being was more
thoroughly
modest, and his courage I need
not speak of.
not speak of.
William Wordsworth
.
It is with me, when I write,
as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy. I can turn
to no object that does not remind me of our loss. I see nothing that
he would not have loved, and enjoyed. . . . My consolations rather come
to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind. I
know it will not always be so. The time will come when the light of
the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure
joy; not the same _gladness_, that can never be--but yet a joy even
more tender. It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been,
could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle. . . . He was taken away
in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child.
Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need
not speak of. He was 'seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the
first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;' and when nothing
more could be done, He said, 'the will of God be done. ' I have no
doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he
was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did
not awaken a pang. . . . He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society.
He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led
on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk
with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out--with a
gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people--something
which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine
an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a
feeling that he never noticed anything in vain. Many a time has he
called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy
sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were
his chief delight. He made of them his companions when he was at sea,
and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night
fed in him. Then he was so happy by the fireside. Any little business
of the house interested him. He loved our cottage. He helped us to
furnish it, and to make the garden. Trees are growing now which he
planted.
as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy. I can turn
to no object that does not remind me of our loss. I see nothing that
he would not have loved, and enjoyed. . . . My consolations rather come
to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind. I
know it will not always be so. The time will come when the light of
the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure
joy; not the same _gladness_, that can never be--but yet a joy even
more tender. It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been,
could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle. . . . He was taken away
in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child.
Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need
not speak of. He was 'seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the
first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;' and when nothing
more could be done, He said, 'the will of God be done. ' I have no
doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he
was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did
not awaken a pang. . . . He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society.
He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led
on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk
with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out--with a
gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people--something
which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine
an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a
feeling that he never noticed anything in vain. Many a time has he
called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy
sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were
his chief delight. He made of them his companions when he was at sea,
and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night
fed in him. Then he was so happy by the fireside. Any little business
of the house interested him. He loved our cottage. He helped us to
furnish it, and to make the garden. Trees are growing now which he
planted.
