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Browsing named entities in Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall). You can also browse the collection for 1858 AD or search for 1858 AD in all documents.
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Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Lucy Osgood
To Miss Lucy Osgood. Wayland, 1858.
I was just about answering your welcome letter, when that overwhelming blow
Death of Ellis Gray Loring. came suddenly, and for a time seemed to crush all life and hope out of me. Nothing but the death of my kind husband could have caused me such bitter grief.
Then came your precious letter of sympathy and condolence.
I thanked you for it, from the depths of my suffering heart; but I did not feel as if I could summon energy to write to any but the bereaved ones of his own household.
You know that he was a valuable friend to me, but no one but myself could know how valuable.
For thirty years he has been my chief reliance.
In moral perplexities I always went to him for counsel, and he never failed to clear away every cloud.
In all worldly troubles I went to him, and always found a judicious adviser, a sympathizing friend, a generous helper.
He was only two months younger than myself, but I had so long been accustomed to lean upon him, th
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Mrs. S. B. Shaw
To Mrs. S. B. Shaw. Wayland, 1858.
There is compensation in all things.
My ignorance and my poverty both have their advantages.
You can never take such child-like delight in a little picture, engraving, or statuette, as I do. Now, while I write, Beauty keeps drawing me away from my letter.
I stop with my pen poised in air, to contemplate my Galatea, my St. Cecilia, my Flying Hour of the Night, my palace in Venice, my young Bacchus, my glowing nasturtium, and my vase of tremulous grass.
Decidedly, there are many compensations for those who are poor, and have never seen the world.
The landscape in front of the window is lovely.
No sharp frost has come to blight the foliage, and the scenery is like a handsome woman of fifty, whom Time has touched so lightly that her girlish delicacy of beauty is merely deepened and warmed with a few autumnal tints.
Thus gently may you glide into the frosted silver of a bright old age!
It must be so, dearest, because so many are cheered by