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What sovereignty more beneficent than that which, far from causing tears to flow, dries them; which, far from shedding blood, stanches it; which, far from immolating life, preserves it; which, far from pressing down upon the people, elevates them; which, far from forging chains, breaks them; and which always maintains order, harmony and peace, without ever inflicting the slightest aggression on liberty?
Pious and charitable institutions, a hospital for old age, Christian schools for children, a public library richly endowed, bear testimony against the charge of avarice which some persons lay at her door. The churches of Saumur owe much of their embellishment to her. "I have none but you to love me," she says to Nanon. The hand of this woman stanches the secret wounds in many families.
But that which might anger a common woman will be to you I feel sure of it an additional reason for loving me. Noble women have indeed a sublime mission to fulfil to suffering and sickened hearts, the mission of the sister of charity who stanches the wound, of the mother who forgives a child.
Those eyes are blessed that 'see no man any more save Jesus only. We need One who can satisfy our desires and fill our hungry souls, and Jesus speaks a promise, confirmed by the experience of all who have tested it when He declares: 'He that cometh unto Me shall never hunger. We need One who will dry our tears, and Jesus, when He says 'Weep not, wipes them away and stanches their sources, giving 'the oil of joy for mourning. We need One who can hold us up in our journey, and minister strength to fainting hearts and vigour to weary feet, and Jesus 'strengthens us with might in the inner man. We need One who will bring us to the promised land of rest, and Jesus brings many sons to glory, and wills that they be 'with Him where He is. So let us turn away from the multiplicity of human insufficiencies to Him who is our one only help and hope, because He is all-sufficient and eternal.
He wanted to imprison his nameless misery in words. At the end of an hour, nine more or less complete lines emerged from among the blots and scratchings. "I do not know what I desire When summer nights are dark and still, When the wind's many-voiced quire Sleeps among the muffled branches. I long and know not what I will: And not a sound of life or laughter stanches Time's black and silent flow.
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