LETTER XXXVII.
SARAH TO FREDERIC.
I THOUGHT when I concluded my last to
you, dear Frederic, that I never again should resume
my pen: the languid flame of life but
faintly glimmered, and it seemed as though the
smallest breath, from the fiend adversity, must
have extinguished it forever. But the human
heart is not so casily broken as is in general believed;
oft may it be lacerated until it bleeds to
its very quick; oft may it be wrung, until every
fibre cracks, and yet will beat and supply the
vital stream that nourishes existence.
A circumstance has taken place, my brother,
which, even in health, I should have dreaded to
encounter, yet my weak frame sunk not under
it, and I have acted, I hope, as a Christian should.
It is about ten days since, that Mr. Hayley called
on me in the morning, and asked me if I was
adequate to taking a short ride and making a
charitable visit? This, in fine weather, he has
frequently done, since my increased debility,
always taking care to hold out some object, the
pursuit of which might engage me to take the
exercise, though the languor of my strength
and spirits might lead me to decline exertion.
I felt uncommonly cheerful that morning, and
Darnley seconding his entreaty, I complied.
When Mr. Hayley and myself were seated in
the chaise, he told me there was an old woman
in the neighborhood of our village, who had been
very ill of a fever; that when her life was despaired
of, he had been sent for to pray with her;
that on visiting her, he found her delirious, and
that she had several times called on my name in
such a manner, as led him to suppose she had
injured me. Upon her partial recovery he
questioned her.
From the day of this excursion, I have been
endeavoring to gain strength and composure to
inform you of the interview.
It is in vain, my heart sickens at her name.
God of mercy! oh, pour thy peace upon my soul,
that I may enter into thy presence in charity
with all; bend! oh bend, this stubborn heart!
which, though it forgives, cannot forget.
I am reduced to almost infantine weakness,
and when I attempt to write, the letters swim
before me, my hand trembles; a cold dew hangs
on my forehead.
The approaches of death are not painful—but
this fluttering at my heart—Adieu, the blessing
of the Almighty rest upon my broth—
