I received a letter from your dear Sister a few days ago, informing me of your continued illness and prostration of physical strength, which I was not altogether unprepared to learn, as our valued friend Mr. Alcott wrote me by your sister’s request in February last, that you were confined at home and very feeble. I am glad, however, to learn from Sophia that you still find comfort and are happy, the reward I have no doubt of a virtuous life, and an abiding faith in the wisdom and goodness of our Heavenly Father. It is undoubtedly wisely ordained that our present lives should be mortal. Sooner or later we must all close our eyes for the last time upon the scenes of this world, and oh! how happy are they who feel the assurance that the spirit shall survive the earthly tabernacle of clay, and pass on to higher and happier spheres of experience.
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing for immortality.”
(Addison, Cato.)
“The soul’s dark cottage, battered, and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made:
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old both worlds at once they view
Who stand upon the threshold of the new.”
(Waller.)
But I cannot yet resign my hold upon you here. I will still hope, and if my poor prayer to God may be heard, would ask, that you may be spared to us a while longer, at least. This is a lovely spring day here – warm and mild – the thermometer in the shade at 62 above zero (3 p.m.). I write with my shanty door open and my west curtain down to keep out the sun, a red-winged blackbird is regaling me with a querulous, half-broken song from a neighboring tree just in front of the house, and the gentle southwest wind is soughing through my young pines. Here where you have so often sat with me, I am alone. My dear Uncle James whom you may remember to have seen here, the companion of my woodland walks for more than quarter of a century, died a year ago this month: my boys and girls have grown into men and women, and my dear wife is an invalid still, so, though a pater familias, I often feel quite alone. Years are accumulating upon me, the buoyancy of youth has erewhile departed, and with some bodily and many mental infirmities I sometimes feel that the cords of life are fast separating. I wish at least to devote the remainder of my life, whether longer or shorter, to the cause of truth and humanity – a life of simplicity and humility. Pardon me for thus dwelling on myself.
Hoping to hear of your more favorable symptoms, but committing you (all unworthy as I am) unto the tender care of the great Shepherd, who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,”
I remain, my dear friend and counsellor,
Ever faithfully yours,
Dan’l Ricketson
P.S. It is barely possible I may come to see you on Sat’y next.
