lately been published,
a book of very sad, beautiful, wise, intimate letters, written by a
woman of great perception, high intellectual gifts and passionate
affections. These letters were published, not long after her death, by
her children, to whom many of them were addressed.

He had read the book, I found, with deep emotion; but he said very
decidedly that it ought not to have been published, at all events 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 stupid a sense of decorum, that I am infinitely grateful
for this glimpse of a pure, patient, and devot