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might be the reason for his writing nothing, and never, amid all her
tears and recitals of distress, suffering one syllable to escape her
lips that could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of
pride in his genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year and
a half since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering
angel--living with him, caring for him, guarding him against exposure,
and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief and the
loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his self abandonment
prostrated in destitution and suffering, begging for him still. If
woman's devotion, born with a first love, and fed with human passion,
hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does not a devotion
like this-pure, disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible
spirit-say for him who inspired it?
We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on the
morning in which she heard of the death of this object of her untiring
care. It is merely a request that we would call upon her, but we will
copy a few of its words--sacred as its privacy is--to warrant the truth
of the picture we have drawn above, and add force to the appeal we wish
to make for her:
"I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie.... Can you
give me any circumstances or particulars?... Oh! do not desert your
poor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ---- to come, as I must
deliver a message to him from my poor Eddie.... I need not ask you to
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