e great Teacher who shed divine
tears for the dead bring their full comfort to you! I have no fear of
that, my confidence is certainty.

I cannot write what I wish; I had so many things to say, I seem to have
said none. It is so with the remembrances we send. I cannot put them
into words.

If you should ever set up a record in the little church, I would try to
word it myself, and God knows out of the fulness of my heart, if you
should think it well.

My dear Friend,
Yours, with the truest affection and sympathy.

[Sidenote: Mr. W. C. Macready.]

HOTEL DES BAINS, BOULOGNE,
_Tuesday Night, Oct. 5th, 1852._

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MACREADY.

MY DEAREST MACREADY,

I received your melancholy letter while we were staying at Dover, a few
days after it was written; but I thought it best not to write to you
until you were at home again, among your dear children.

Its tidings were not unexpected to us, had been anticipated in many
conversations, often thought of under many circumstances; but the shock
was scarcely lessened by this preparation. The many happy days we have
passed together came crowding back; all the old cheerful times arose
before us; and the remembrance of what we had loved so dearly and seen
under so many aspects--all natural and delightful and affectionate and
ever to be cherished--was, how pathetic and touching you know best!

But my dear, dear Macready, this is not the first time you have felt
that the recollection of great love and happiness associated with the
dead soothes while it wounds. And while I can imagine that the blank
beside you may grow wider every day for many days to come, I _know_--I
think--that from its depths such comfort will arise as only comes to
great hearts like yours, when they can think upon their trials with a
steady trust in God.

My dear friend, I have known her so well, have been so happy in her
regard, have been so light-hearted with her, have interchanged so many
tender remembrances of you with her when you were far away, and have
seen her ever so simply and truly anxious to be worthy of you, that I
cannot write as I would and as I know I ought. As I would press your
hand in your distress, I let this note go from me. I understand your
grief, I deeply feel the reason that there is for it, yet in that very
feeling find a softening consolation that must sp