Lidian Jackson Emerson (1802-1892), the second wife of Ralph Waldo Emerson, corresponded with a large circle of relatives and friends between 1826 and 1876. In a letter to her sister, dated February 4, 1842, she described her grief on the death of her five-year-old son who had died a week before of scarlet fever.
Dear Lucy,
What shall I say—I feel at this moment almost comfortless—but I will write on and better hopes and feelings will return, so that I shall not make you grieve the more by my letter. My faith that all is yet well—all is better than ever—never quite leaves me—and sometimes I am cheerful, and no one would think one of my greatest sources of happiness had so lately stopped. . . . Such another bud of lovliest promise we may not hope for. I find it was not parental partiality that made us believe Waldo [her son] to be an uncommonly interesting child. Others have felt his loveliness, and now speak of him and of the impression he made upon them, in terms which surprise as much as they gratify us. Indeed it seems as if wherever he went the eyes that saw him have witness to him—the ear that heard him, bless him. He was an angel with wings but half concealed. But his body and mind were so healthful—he was far from any thing like precocity—that it had never occurred to us that Earth would be but a little while his home....
Mr. Emerson is very sorrowful. He has an unwavering faith that all is right; but sees not how the departure of the child is to be more to us than his presence would have been. I tell him I am sure, though I too, see not how—that greatly as he was blessed in the possession of such a treasure he is still more high blessed in its recall. I can give you no idea of the joy and hope the pride—the rapture, with which he regarded Waldo; he was always his companion and his best society. . . . I did not imagine till Waldo was taken from us, how deeply I loved him. He died in the evening and after all was over we sat together (Mr. Emerson, Mother and myself) and talked of our loss—and I then felt able to endure my bereavement. But after we had separated for the night and I was left alone with the baby—and Ellen [a three-year-old daughter] who was to take her father's place in my bed that I might take care of her, grief desolating grief came over me like a flood—and I feared that the charm of earthly life was forever destroyed. I saw not how I could ever feel happy again. I thought of the words "Time brings such wondrous easing" and believed Time could bring no easing to us. I lived over my life with the child and recalled all his sweet and lovely traits. His innocence, his wisdom, his generosity, his love for his mother I wished I could forget them all. . . . I was not worthy to be his mother—except my love for him made me worthy.
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