the door open of that little one where _you_ used to sleep, and the
very bed waiting there for you, so silent and desolate, that all the
love, and the _miss_ of you, which fell so sadly on my heart the first
night of your desertion, came back upon it so heavily and darkly, that
I was obliged to shut myself in, and cry over the recollection, as if
all the interval had been annihilated, and that loss and sorrow were
still fresh and unsubdued before me; and though the fit went off
before long, I feel still that I must vent my heart by telling you of
it, and therefore sit down now to write all this to you, and get rid
of my feelings, that would otherwise be more likely to haunt my vigils
of the night.' Thus, on the death of a sister in his early days:--'A
very heavy blow upon us all, and much more so on me than I had
believed possible. The habit of seeing her almost every day, and of
living together intimately since our infancy, had wound so many
threads of affection round my heart, that when they were burst at
once, the shock was almost overwhelming. Then, the unequalled
gentleness of her disposition, the unaffected worth of her affections,
and miraculous simplicity of character and manners, which made her
always appear as pure and innocent as an infant, took so firm, though
gentle a hold on the heart of every one who approached her, that even
those who have been comparatively strangers to her worth, have been
greatly affected by her loss.... During the whole of her illness, she
looked beautiful; and when I gazed upon her the moment after she had
breathed her last, as she lay still, still, and calm, with her bright
eyes half closed, and her red lips half open, I thought I had never
seen a countenance so lovely. A statuary might have taken her for a
model. Poor, dear love! I kissed her cold lips, and pressed her cold,
wan, lifeless hand, and would willingly at that moment have put off my
own life too, and followed her. When I came here, the sun was rising,
and the birds were singing gaily, as I sobbed along the empty