In the last extract, we have an example of that genuine humility, which, being a love of truth, underlaid her whole character, notwithstanding its seeming pride. She could not have been great as she was, without it.[1]
‘December 19th, 1829.—I shall always be glad to
have you come to me when saddened. The
melancholic does not misbecome you. The lights of your
character are wintry. They are generally inspiriting,
life-giving, but, if perpetual, would glare too much on
the tired sense; one likes sometimes a cloudy day, with
its damp and warmer breath,— its gentle, down-looking
shades. Sadness in some is intolerably ungraceful
and oppressive; it affects one like a cold rainy day in
June or September, when all pleasure departs with the
sun; everything seems out of place and irrelative to
the time; the clouds are fog, the atmosphere leaden, —
but ’tis not so with you.’
Of her own truthfulness to her friends, which led her
frankly to speak to them of their faults or dangers, her
correspondence gives constant examples.
The first is from a letter of later date than properly belongs to this chapter, but is so wholly in her spirit of candor that I insert it here. It is from a letter written in 1843.
- ↑
According to Dryden's beautiful statement—
For as high turrets, in their airy sweep
Require foundations, in proportion deep.
And lofty cedars as far upward shoot
As to the nether heavens they drive the root;
So low did her secure foundation lie,
She was not humble, but humility.’
