Alone

Of late, lying awake in darkness and misery, I have asked if this be life, whether an immortal existence is not a curse to be feared, rather than a blessing to be hoped, and if the wretchedness we fear in the eternal world can be worse than what we sometimes suffer now,—such sinking of heart, such helplessness of fear, such a vain calling for help that never comes.

We are in ourselves so utterly helpless,—life is so hard and inexplicable, that we stand in perishing need of some helping hand, some sensible appreciable connection with God. How many hours have I gone round and round this dreary track,—chilled, weary, shivering, seeing no light, and hearing no voice! Now a divine ray has shone upon me, and all the burdens on my soul have gone at the sight of the Cross down into the sepulchre, to be seen no more. There is One who does love me,—the One Friend, whose love, like the sunshine, can be the portion of each individual of the human race, without exhaustion. This is the great mystery of faith.

Speak to me! tell me your innermost thoughts, as I have told you mine. Is not life short and sad and bitter enough, that those who could help each other should neglect the few things they can do to make it tolerable? Why do we travel side by side, lonely and silent,—each, perhaps, hiding in that silence the word of life the other needs?

—from Harriet Beecher Stowe, Oldtown Folks ch19, quoting 'New England Ministers', Atlantic Monthly, 1 (1858): 485-492.