DEAR H----,
I received your letter about an hour ago, at rehearsal, and though
I read it with rather dim eyes, I managed to swallow my tears, and
go on with Mrs. Beverley.
The depth and solemnity of your feelings, my dear H----, on those
important subjects of which we have so often spoken together,
almost make me fear, sometimes, that I am not so much impressed as
I ought to be with their _awfulness_. I humbly hope I _fear_ as I
ought, but it is so much easier for me to love than to fear, that
my nature instinctively fastens on those aspects of religion which
inspire confidence and impart support, rather than those which
impress with dread. I was thinking the other day how constantly in
all our prayers the loftiest titles of might are added to that Name
of names, "Our Father," and yet His power is always less present to
my mind than His mercy and love. You tell me I do not know you, and
that may very well be, for one really _knows_ no one; and when I
reflect upon and attempt to analyze the various processes of my own
rather shallow mind, and find them incomprehensible, I am only
surprised that there should be so much mutual affection in a world
where mutual knowledge and understanding are really impossible.
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