To me the Unseen openeth

Immortal joys to angels given,

Upon the holy heights of Heaven

I’ll want you—Mary!


God has given me two priceless benedictions in life;—in my youth a perfect Mother; in my later years, a perfect Friend. No other gifts, had I possessed them, Genius, or beauty, or fame, or the wealth of the Indies, would have been worthy to compare with the joy of those affections. To live in companionship, almost unbroken by separation and never marred by a doubt or a rough word, with a mind in whose workings my own found inexhaustible interest, and my heart its rest; a friend who knew me better than any one beside could ever know me, and yet,—strange to think!—could love me better than any other,—this was happiness for which, even now that it is over, I thank God from the depths of my soul. I thank Him that I have had such a Friend. And I thank Him that she died without prolonged suffering or distress, with her head resting on my breast and her hand pressing mine; calm and courageous to the last. Her old physician said when all was over: “I have seen many, a great many, men and women die; but I never saw one die so bravely.”

It has been possible for me through the kindness of my friend’s sister, to whom Hengwrt now belongs, to obtain for my remaining months or years a lease of this dear old house and beautiful grounds; and my winters of entire solitude, and summers, when a few friends and relations gather round me, glide rapidly away. I am still struggling on, as my friend bade me (literally with her dying breath), working for the cause of the science-tortured brutes, and I have even spoken again in public, and written many pamphlets and letters for the press. I hope, as Tennyson told me to do, to “fight the good fight” quite to the end. But there is a price which every aged heart perforce must pay for the long enjoyment of one soul-satisfying affection. When that affection is lost, it must be evermore lonely.


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