The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1861-01-31
come Of me?. What shall I do now 7

She dld not say so; She did not say any
thing; but she felt it. The prospect OF
the old wife is clouded. The home cir
Gle is broken up, never to be reunited;
the visions Of the hearthstone are scatter
ed forever Up to that hour, there wasa
home, to which the heart always turned
with fondness. But the magic tie is sun
dered, the keystone Of that sacred arch is
fallen, and nowhere this side of heaven.
What shall the old wife do now? Go
and live with her children-be pension
er upon their kindness, where she may be
more of a burden than blessing-so at
least she thinks. Or shall she gather up
the fragments of that broken archj make
them her temple and her shrine, sit down
in her chill solitude beside its expiring
fires, 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-mourner
it brings kind of shudder, thrill of ag-
ony, as when the headsman comes for
ward with his axe. The undertaken
stood moment with decent propriety
not wishing to manifest rude haste, but
evidently desirous of being as expeditions
as possible. Just then the old wife turn
ed back, and STOPPING down, imprinted
one last long kiss upon the cold lips of
her dead husband, then staggered to her
seat, buried her face in her hands, and
the closing coffin hid him from her sight
forever
!. The kiss Fond taken of affection and
sorrow, of memory and farewell. have
seen many kiss their dead-many such
seals of love upon clay cold lips but never
did see one SO purely, so simple hearted,
touching and hopeless as that which looks
beyond coffins and charnel houses and
dark, Camp tombs to the joys of the home
above. You would kiss the cold cheek Of
} infancy. There is poetry there; it is the
blasted rose bud-or the pallid cheek
!, where beauty blushed. Therei is romance
> there; for the faded flower is still beauti-
full In childhood, the heart yields to the
stroke. but recoils again, elastic with faith,
bouyant with hope But there was no
beauty no poetry, no romance. The heart
of the old wife was like the weary swim
mer, whose strength has often raised him
above the stormy waves, but now exhaus-
ted, sinks among the surges.
Why should the old love the old, OF
kiss the cold, unloving lips? All, why
shouldn't they? Does the true heart
feel the infrmities Of years? Does it
grow dull and cold, ,whenthe steps become
unsteady and the hands hang down? Who
shall say that the heart of the old wife
was not as young and warm as in those
early and bright days when he wooed and
won her? The temple other earthly hope
had fallen, what was there left but for
her to sit down in dependency among its
lonely ruins, and weep and die? Or in
the spirit of better hope, await the dawn
ing of another day, when hand Divine
should gather its scattered dust, and
rebuild for Immortality, its broken walls
May the old wife's kiss that linked the
living with the dead, be the token of q
holier tie that shall bind their spirits in
that better world, where tears are wiped
from all faces, and the days Of their mourn
ing are ended.
m O., r,u -, T rr,, A -;