The Clarksburg telegram. [volume] (Clarksburg, W. Va.) 1874-1926, 1898-06-03
DEATH WIPED OUT THE SCORE

angel trait still unsullied, it is
the sublime forgiveness it accords
the dead. 1t is as il the tears
that are she'd above every grave
turned into q kind Of rainbow
glory through which we look
ed back upon an ended life. and
saw it transfgured. No need to
say speak only good Of the dead.
| Death itself becomes the crucible
| in which our faults are trans.
muted into virtues. 1t is never
the unkind word we recall. but
the gentle deed; never the falter.
ing act, but the high and noble
purpose, and the best of US may
be thankful TO feel that when our
time comes, too, to join the vast
majority, that compassion will
turn its plying eyes away from
our faults. and see only the good
! we fain would have done. To
be judged tenderly when we are
gone is the great boon that all,
rich and poor. high and humble,
must ask Of their kind. Some.
times there is a great deal of
heartbreaking pathos in this
loyalty to the dead. There may
have been years of cruelty. of
enlargement. OF neglect, but
death wipes it all out, and we go
back to some simple and quiet
hour that we may remember
without shame or remorse. The
mother who sobs above the dead
body of her maynard son, recalls
nothing of the agony, of the dis
grace he may have brought her.
She sees nothing of the bloated.
hideous, summarized face. She
has gone back to the days when
a little child, he LAID upon her
breast and looked up into her
face with eyes that were still full
of the mysteries of heaven. Some
time we see a wife who has been
BETRAYED, degraded, neglected,
insulted. kneeling at her hus-
bands bier. To her death has
blotted out the memory of her
wrongs, and she mourns the lover
of her youth, the hour that made
the world an Eden, rose sweet
with loves young dream, and
most of all her tears are for the
dreamer and the dream, the love
that faltered, the light that fail
ed, the incense Of the soul that
wasted itself upon the desert air.
The other day a drunken hood.
lum lay dead in the poor place he
called home. It was the end Of
life that had begun and ended
10 sin. and whose days had known
nothing save evil. Not one gen
tie deed shed its perfume ABOVE
its waste; not one high aspiration
shone like star across its
murky way, but none the less a
weeping women c!ung to the
senseless clay, and broke above
it the alabaster casket of her
love. bill was always so good
to me, she sobbed. "In all the
beating he give me, he never hit
me where the marks would show
SO the neighbors could see me" "
Think Of the pathos of such a
story as that! How often he
had come home crazy drunk, with
curses and abuses for the poor
creature who had set her heart
upon him How She must have
covered away from his anger /;
how often she must have crouch.
ed in the dark closet on the
stairs and hidden until he slept
OF his drunken fury, afraid for
her very life. Often and often
he had beaten her, so that very
dog, SO treated, might have turn
ed upon him and slain him /; but
her patience and love never falt-
cred. She covered the poor bruis.
ed shoulders with her ragged
frock. She told futile little lies
about falling and hurting herself
and her eyes dared one to doubt
the story they knew to be false.
Loyalty and devotion and love
could go no further. And now
Bill was dead. Nothing more to
fear from the heavy hand; moth.