He was of large frame and of noble appearance, and was
referred to by my mother in after-life with the deepest admiration.
She writes:--
"It is difficult to realize how ill he is. He has none of the ways of
sick people. His voice is as cheerful as ever, with no whine in its
tones. He has no whims. He is always ready to smile, and reads
constantly. . . . Mary and I spent the evening with the beloved one.
He was pretty cheery, and told a comical anecdote of Dean Swift. He
stood up on Friday much more firmly than formerly. Elizabeth
Hawthorne sent him Miss Martineau's book, after tea, which was
certainly very kind and attentive in her. I am determined to go and
see her this week. I spent the morning upon my bed, reading Herodotus.
. . . I found that mother had taken James and gone to Paradise after a
_hawthorne_ bush. It is a bush for which she has had a longing for
several years, but never could get any kind friend to uproot it for
her."
The highest principles of thought and action are constantly danced
about and caressed by my mother in all her letters, as we imagine a
Greek maiden paying cheerful homage to beautiful statues of the gods.
For instance, in writing to the brother already mentioned, before his
illness, she says:--
"I do not like to have you say that you enjoy despising people,
George. It would be a little better to say you cannot help it
sometimes; and even that is a dangerous attitude of mind. It is
better to sorrow over than to despise.
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