She reminds me of innocence personified in
Spenser's poem. In her girlhood, alone, heart-led, she comforts the
slave in his quarters, mentally struggling with the problems his
position wakes her to. Alone, not confused, but seeking something to
lean on, she grasps the Church, which proves a broken reed. No whit
disheartened, she turns from one sect to another, trying each by the
infallible touchstone of that clear, child-like conscience. The two old,
lonely Quakers rest her foot awhile. But the eager soul must work, not
rest in testimony. Coming North at last, she makes her own religion one
of sacrifice and toil. Breaking away from, rising above, all forms, the
dove floats at last in the blue sky where no clouds reach.... This is no
place for tears. Graciously, in loving kindness and tenderly, God broke
the shackles and freed her soul. It was not the dust which surrounded
her that we loved. It was not the form which encompassed her that we
revere; but it was the soul. We linger a very little while, her old
comrades. The hour comes, it is even now at the door, that God will open
our eyes to see her as she is: the white-souled child of twelve years
old ministering to want and sorrow; the ripe life, full of great
influences; the serene old age, example and inspiration whose light will
not soon go out.
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