should be written very soon after the occurrence of the sorrowful
event, and, while brief, should not be cold and formal; neither should
they touch the opposite extreme, and, by dwelling with maddening
iteration upon the fresh sorrow, harrow anew the stricken soul of the
mourner. The occasion should never be seized upon as a text for a
sermon on resignation, nor should frequent reference be made to various
like bereavements suffered by the writer. These comparisons only wound,
for “there is no sorrow like unto my sorrow,” has ever been the cry of
the stricken soul. And when friends have done their little all, each
mourner still feels the truth of Lowell’s lines:
“Condole if you will, I can bear it,
’Tis the well-meant alms of breath,
Yet all of the preachings since Adam
Cannot make Death other than Death.”
Yet friends cannot deny themselves the privilege of a few loving words,
and a letter on the loss of a beloved daughter might be as follows:
CAPE MAY, June 1, 189—.