This is all I can say. From me to you such commonplace words of comfort as the world generally gives would be a kind of sin. I suffer with your grief. I, who have no home now, know what the sorrows of home are,—they leave a scar in the heart, which never goes, and that is sad, but it is well. Cherish this scar, it is a pledge of the future. Do not give yourself up to the barren, cowardly sorrow, called despair. There is no death in the world except forgetfulness. Everything that loves and has loved to death meets again. Good-bye, my friend. Think of your health for the sake of your other children. God bless you in them,—your friend,
Joseph.
[This letter was succeeded by the following.]
Dear Friend,—I have received your letters, they are more and more sad. You have been ill and you are unhappy. Your visit to the Continent will do you good physically, I hope, but as to your moral health, you must cure that yourself. Rouse your soul, which is in danger of being benumbed by sorrow; you will find at the bottom of it, I don't say happiness, I don't say even hope, but duty and faith in some affections which do count. For God's sake, do not despair: you have dear children to bring up; you can still do good, and you have friends who esteem and love you and suffer with your sufferings and find strength in your own. Ah me, what the devil should I do myself, if I allowed the little strength, which God has left me, to desert me, as it often threatens to do.... Good-bye. Yours with all my heart,
Joseph.
VIII
Letter to Mr Peter Taylor [September 11, 1860].
Dear Peter,—