The life and letters of Benjamin Jowett, M. A., master of Balliol college, Oxford.

358

Life of Benjamin Jowetl

[CHAP. XI

I have no faith in words being able to do anything to
alleviate such a blow. But the remembrance of the strong
inextinguishable affection of many friends may be of some
value even in this great trouble. Let me assure you how many
care for you as though you were a relative, and what a sense
there is (as a person said to me) of the noble and useful life
you have been leading-how increasing this has been since
your return to Oxford. Indeed, though the blank and the
chasm is great, other ties are beginning to weave themselves
for your support. Don't let yourself wither in sorrow like
one without hope, but embrace the ever increasing field of
duties that is opening before you.
I know that she was father, mother, brothers, and friends
to you all in one. Considering her extraordinary ability and
intense affection it was most natural. And now perhaps
there is only one thing that she would have cared for on
earth, or does care for if the spirits of the departed retain the
memories of such things:-that the end of your life should
answer to the beginning of it and be consecrated, not without
the thought of her, to the service of God and of mankind.
I can hardly conceal from myself that life must be for years
painful to you; but things may be done in it far beyond,
and of another sort from the dreams of youthful ambition.
Please write to me, if you are able, to tell me whether there
is anything you would like me to do for you. I called in
Grosvenor Crescent on Friday and saw your sisters: they
were quite well and took their great sorrow quite naturally:
they were full of kindness and thought about others. You
need have no anxiety about them: they are sure to do exactly
what you would wish. All that I heard from them and from
Lady Stanley would have given you comfort if accidents could
give comfort in such an overwhelming trouble.
Write to me for another reason, which is, perhaps, a selfish
one, that life is very dark with me at present. I can't bear to
think that I shall never more see that dear kind smile which
used to greet me at Christ Church: that I have lost a friend
who will never be replaced, who always greatly over-estimated
me for your sake. Alas, too, we have both of us lost poor
Luke-there was no life in Oxford more valuable. And on