* From a letter of condolence written to a friend on the
death of his mother.
After all, there is something tenderly appropriate in the serene death
of the old. Nothing is more touching than the death of the young, the
strong. But when the duties of life have all been nobly done; when the
sun touches the horizon; when the purple twilight falls upon the past,
the present, and the future; when memory, with dim eyes, can scarcely
spell the blurred and faded records of the vanished days--then,
surrounded by kindred and by friends, death comes like a strain of
music. The day has been long, the road weary, and the traveler gladly
stops at the welcome inn.
Nearly forty-eight years ago, under the snow, in the little town
of Cazenovia, my poor mother was buried. I was but two years old. I
remember her as she looked in death. That sweet, cold face has kept my
heart warm through all the changing years.
*****
There is no cunning art to trace
In any feature, form or face,
Or wrinkled palm, with criss-cross lines
The good or bad in peoples' minds.
Nor can we guess men's thoughts or aims
By seeing how they write their names.
We could as well foretell their acts
By getting outlines of their tracks.
Ourselves we do not know--how then
Can we find out our fellow-men?