I Saw Only One Person Whom I Liked To Speak To, Among My Three Hundred
Fellow-Voyagers.
This was a tall, pale, and very ladylike person in deep
mourning, with a perfectly uninterested look, and such deep lines of
sorrow on her face, that I saw at a glance that the world had no power to
interest or please her.
She sat on the same sofa with me, and was
helplessly puzzling over the route from Buffalo to Albany with a gruff,
uncouth son, who seemed by no means disposed to aid her in her
difficulties. As I was able to give her the information she wanted, we
entered into conversation for two hours. She soon told me her history,
merely an ordinary one, of love, bereavement, and sorrow. She had been a
widow for a year, and she said that her desolation was so great that her
sole wish was to die. Her sons were taking her a tour, in the hope of
raising her spirits, but she said she was just moved about and dressed
like a doll, that she had not one ray of comfort, and that all shrunk from
her hopeless and repining grief. She asked me to tell her if any widow of
my acquaintance had been able to bear her loss with resignation; and when
I told her of some instances among my own relations, she burst into tears
and said, "I am ever arraigning the wisdom of God, and how can I hope for
his consolations?" The task of a comforter is ever a hard one, and in her
instance it was particularly so, to point to the "Balm of Gilead," as
revealed in sacred Scripture; for a stranger to show her in all kindness
that comfort could never be experienced while, as she herself owned, she
was living in the neglect of every duty both to God and man.
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