Misery seems to possess one of the attributes of the Supreme Being, and is everywhere present, inflicting its anguish in every human breast. No situation in life, however elevated, is above its reach; none, however obscure, is beneath its notice. It goes up to the throne, and disturbs the peace of the monarch; it creeps into the lonely hut, wringing the heart of poverty; nor can the tears of penury, nor the moans of distress, move its pity. It fastens on the babe in the days of infancy; follows him through the various stages of childhood and of youth; becomes a more intimate associate as he advances in life, but often reserves its most poignant inflictions and its bitterest draughts till old age, when the mind is bereft of its vivacity and strength. It lurks beneath the most fascinating objects of delight, and springs out at a season when no danger is expected; sometimes it throws around itself the garb of complacency, and, under the appearance of the truest friendship and the purest affection, disarms suspicion, that it may more effectually entangle its victim.
Where can we find an antidote for human misery? Not in the speculations of philosophy. Philosophy tells us that we must endure our sufferings, because we cannot avoid them; and that it would be visionary to expect an entire exemption from them in a world in which they everywhere abound. Miserable comforter! I need some substantial relief, some prop on which I can lean in the days of adversity. Where shall I find it?--in human friendship? Alas! that is too often a phantom of the imagination, which plays before the fancy while prosperity shines on my pathway, but disappears as the storm arises, and the darkness of the night falls upon me. I need a more stable source of consolation. Where shall I find it? "In sweet submission to thy will, O my God!" Here is bliss. Here I find joy in grief. Here I have the bitter waters of life made sweet, the heavy burden of care lightened, and my strength becomes equal to my day.
The indisposition of Mrs. Stevens increased, and became more and more alarming; she was soon confined to her room, then to her bed; and her life was considered in imminent danger. The fever rose so high that she became somewhat delirious, but even then, while her fancy wandered amidst the wild scenes of her own imaginative creation, she spoke with rapture of her approaching dissolution. On one occasion, as I entered her room, she raised herself up, and sang, with a strong yet softened melody of voice: