Daily evening star. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1852-1854, 1854-06-10
DAILY EVENING STAR,
THE OLD WIFE's KISS.

as .ie voice OF prayer ceased, tears were
hastily wiped off from wet cheeks. and
long drawn sighs relieved suppressed and
choking sobs, as the " mourners" nrenar-
ed to "take leave of the corpse
1t was an old man that Law there.
robed for the grave. More than three
score years had whitened those locks, and
furTowed that brow, and made those stiff
limbs weary of life's journey, and all the
more willing to lie down and rest where
WEAKNESS is no more suffered, and infirm-
aties are no longer a burden.
The aged have but few to weep for them
when they die. The most of those who
would have mourned their loss, have gone
to the grave before them; harps that
would have sighed sad harmonies, are
shattered and gone. And the few who
remain are looking cradleward, rather
than graveward-to life's opening ;rather
than to its closing goal are bound to,
and living In the generation rising, more
than the generation departing.
Youth and beauty have many admirers
while living-have many mourners when
dying. Many fearful ones bend over
their coffined clay, many sad hearts fol-
low in their funeral train. But age has
few admirers, few mourners.
This was an old man, and the circle of
mourners was small. Two children, who
had themselves passed the middle of life,
and who had children of their own to
care for, and to be cared for bv them.
Besides these, and a few friends who had
seen and visited him while sick, and pos
sibly had known him for few wears,
there were none others to shed q tear ex-
cept his old wife. And of this small
company, the old wife seemed to be the
only heart mourner. 1t is respectful for
friends to be sad for few minutes, till
the service is performed, and the hearse
is out of sight. 1t is very proper and
suitable for children who have outgrown
the fervency and affections of youth, to
shed tears when an aged parent SAYS fare
well, and lies down to quiet slumbers.
Some regrets, some recollection of the
past, some transitory grief, and the pangs
are over. Not always so. But often,
how little true genuine htart sorrow there
is
The old wife arose with difficulty from
her seat, and went to the coffin to look
her last look-to take her last farewell.
Through the fast falling tears, she gazed
long and fondly down into that pale, un-
conscious face. What did she see there
Others saw nothing but the rigid features
OF the dead: she saw more. In every
wrinkle of that brow, she read the history
of years. From youth to manhood, from
manhood to old age-in Joy and sorrow,
in sickness and health-it was all there:
when those children, who had now out
grown the sympathies of childhood, were
infants lying on her bosom-and every
year since then-there it was! To others.
those dull, mute monitors were unlntel
ligible; to her, they We're the alphabet of
the heart-familiar as household words
And then the future. What will
become of me! What shall do now ?''
She did not say so-she did not saw any
thing; but she felt it. The prospect Of
the old wife is clouded. The home circle
is broken, never to be re-united-the
visions of the hearth stone are scattered
forever. Up to that hour, there was a
home, to which the heart always turned
with fondness. But that magic is sun
dered-the keystone of that sacred arch
has fallen, and now home is no where
this side of heaven! What shall the old
wife do now? Go and live with her
children, be pensioner upon their kind
ness; where she may be more of bur-
den than a blessing-so at least she |
thinks Or shall she gather up the scat
tered fragments of that broken arch make
them her temple and her shrine, sit down
in her chill solicitude, beside its expiring
fire, and die ! What shall she do now
They gently crowded her away from
the dead, and the undertaken came for
ward with the coffin-lid in his hand. 1t
is all right and proper enough-of course
it must be done but to the heart mourn
er, it brings kind of shudder, thrill
of agony, as when the headsman comes
forward with his axe! The undertaken
stood for a moment with decent propriety,
not wishing to manifest a rude haste, but
evidently desirous to be expeditions as
possible. Just as be was about to close
the coffin, the old wife turned back, and
stopping down, imprinted one long, last
kiss upon the cold lips Of her dead hus-
band, then staggered to her seat, buried
her face in her hands, and the closing
coffin hid him from her sight forever.
That kiss Fond token Of affection,
and of sorrow, and memory, and fare.
well. 1 have seen many kiss their dead
many such seals of love upon clay cold
lips-but never did l see one so purely
sad, so simply heart touching and hope
less as that Or if it had hope, it was
that which looks beyond coffins and char
nel-houses, and damp, dark tombs, to the
ioys of the home above. You would kiss
the cold cheek Of infancy. There is
poetry; it is the blast rose bud Or the
pallid cheek where beauty blushed.
There is romance there; for the faded
flower is still beautiful. In childhood,
the heart yields to the stroke of sorrow,
but recoils again, elastic with faith, buoy
ant with home But here was no beauty,
no poetry or romance. The heart of the
old wife was like the weary swimmer,
whose strength has often raised him above
the stormy waves, but low exhausted,
sinks amidst the surges.
Why should the old love the old, or
kiss the cold, unloving lips? All, why
shouldn't they? Does affection grow
oldl Does the true heart feel the intirm-