“My dear Father,—Being called up to town on some business, about which I cannot, just at present, write (but which has nothing disagreeable in it), I have received here to-day” (in London), “by a letter from Sophia, my first accounts of my dear grandmother’s death. Before my letter reaches you the grave has closed over her remains, and I have been deprived even of the painful pleasure of partaking in the last service. I know all reason and sense are against it, but I can’t tell you, nevertheless, how much I feel saddened. You, no doubt, have still more deeply the same natural impression to struggle against. Whatever consolation the memory of kindness, excellence, and piety can give us, we surely have. I shall not write any more at present.
1 “Life,” viii. 64. |
| IN TOWN | 359 |
