It was dusk, and I did not at once see her; her voice was low, not
particularly sweet, but very gentle. She told me that she had heard
Professor Henry speak of me, and that Professor Henry was one of her
best friends, the truest man she knew. When the lights were brought in I
looked at her. She must be past fifty, she is rather small, dresses
indifferently, has good features in general, but indifferent eyes. She
does not brighten up in countenance in conversing. She is so successful
that I suppose there must be a hidden fire somewhere, for heat is a
motive power, and her cold manners could never move Legislatures. I saw
some outburst of fire when Mrs. Hale's book was spoken of. It seems Mrs.
Hale wrote to her for permission to publish a notice of her, and was
decidedly refused; another letter met with the same answer, yet she
wrote a 'Life' which Miss Dix says is utterly false.
"In her general sympathy for suffering humanity, Miss Dix seems
neglectful of the individual interest. She has no family connection but
a brother, has never had sisters, and she seemed to take little interest
in the persons whom she met. I was surprised at her feeling any desire
to see me. She is not strikingly interesting in conversation, because
she is so grave, so cold, and so quiet. I asked her if she did not
become at times weary and discouraged; and she said, wearied, but not
discouraged, for she had met with nothing but success.
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