Out of the conscious heart of humanity issues forever, more or less
clearly, a voice of infinite, pure content. 'Through the valley of the
shadow of death I will fear no evil, for THOU art with me.' Sometimes,
when our trial is sorest, that voice is clearest, singing as from the
jaws of death and the gates of hell. And now, though the tears fall,
they become jewels as they fall; and the sorrow that begot them wears
them in the diadem of its more than regal felicity."
This is the echo of his own experience; the spiritual diagnosis of his
case. With what fortitude he endured his maladies those who knew him
best can bear witness. He was no ideal Stoic nor self-conscious martyr;
but more like an Homeric hero fighting his troubles, bearing them
bravely, talking of them sensibly, always glad to receive sympathy but
never seeking it, and complaining when he could endure no longer. He
never tried to comfort himself by sophistical reflections, but elevated
thoughts were always his chief consolation. Conversation about great
writers and thinkers always seemed to strengthen him.
Mr. Frothingham in his excellent memoir speaks of Wasson as a
self-consuming nature. Such a statement may apply to men like Schiller
and John Sterling but it can hardly be said of one who lived to be
sixty-four years old. If he had not been a remarkably patient, prudent,
temperate and altogether practical man his disorder would have consumed
him long before that time.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153