Who has not, at some period of his life, seated himself at a
writing-table, where, only a short time before, another sat, who now
rests in the grave? Who has not opened the drawers, which for long
years have hidden the secrets of a heart now buried in the holy peace
of the church-yard? Here lie the letters which were so precious to
him, the beloved one; here the pictures, ribbons, and books with marks
on every leaf. Who can now read and interpret them? Who can gather
again the withered and scattered leaves of this rose, and vivify them
with fresh perfume? The flames, in which the Greeks enveloped the
bodies of the departed for the purpose of destruction; the flames, into
which the ancients cast everything once dearest to the living, are now
the securest repository for these relics. With trembling fear the
surviving friend reads the leaves no eye has ever seen, save those now
so firmly closed, and if, after a glance, too hasty even to read them,
he is convinced these letters and leaves contain nothing which men deem
important, he throws them quickly upon the glowing coals--a flash and
they are gone.
From such flames the following leaves have been saved. They were at
first intended only for the friends of the deceased, yet they have
found friends even among strangers, and, since it is so to be, may
wander anew in distant lands. Gladly would the compiler have furnished
more, but the leaves are too much scattered and mutilated to be
rearranged and given complete.