My health, of which you are so good as to inquire, continues unimpaired, though I feel much of that listlessness of sorrow which succeeds to the first energies of grief. My loss is irreparable. The friend of early youth, whom I always found equally partial, tender, efficient, and sincere—who never lost an opportunity of giving pleasure, and whose affection transformed my very faults into so many perfections, must, by her departure, leave a chasm never to be filled; and I know not whether it does not increase my regret, that the very unpretending simplicity, which was a charm in her character, in some measure concealed the powers of her understanding, and the virtues of her heart, from all but her closest intimates. I know no one who gave so much in proportion to their means, and not only to the very poor, but to those of a higher class, who are more rarely recollected or assisted. She refused no one, till she tried whether it was possible, by her purse or her influence, to serve them. Every year of her life ripened her piety, her charity, her faith. At the head of a large establishment, to which she contributed a movement of the most beautiful tranquillity and order, she made all around her happy; and, not content with feeding and clothing the poor, used to send her maid to discover whether want existed in the cottages; and to reproach herself, in spite of a state of health and routine of avocations and duties that rendered it impracticable, for not going in person. She was an early riser, and free from all effeminacy and personal indulgence. She set her mind for the day by reading at least two chapters in the Bible and a portion of the Psalms, before she appeared at breakfast, and she was regular in her studies of a few of the best books on religious subjects. It was some effort to go last Sunday to the church, where I had never been but with her. But her own composure seems to have spread itself around her, and to have remained among her friends without the smallest diminution of the depth, and with a great addition to the tenderness, of their regrets. On the 25th, I again saw her dear remains, wrapped in white satin, and reposing on a white satin mattrass and pillows, in her last quiet bed; for though all was conducted with the privacy she desired, it was mingled with the respectful state suitable to her condition. On the evening of the 27th, I prayed by her closed coffin—a solemn, not a gloomy, object. It lay in the midst of one of the largest rooms, which was fully lighted, and in its sombre magnificence this her last dwelling left a serious impression, but inflicted no additional pang. She reposes by the side of the mother she so much loved.
I gaze upon thy vacant chair,
And almost see thine image there;
I view the slowly-opening door,
And scarce believe that never more
Thy step of lightness there shall tend
With cordial smile to greet thy friend,
My Emily.
Thy gentle care was ever nigh,