It is a manifest peculiarity of the human mind to believe that its
sorrows should be more enduring than they really are. We have in this
phenomenon some of the clearest views of our weakness and inconsistency,
for though we deplore the destiny which deals out so much misery to us,
yet we despise ourselves, and are also thought somewhat less of by our
associates, if we do not embalm our griefs and remain a sort of
mummy-house above ground until the memory of our friends has grown
faulty and unreliable when applied to our affairs. Thus,
A WIFE LOSES HER HUSBAND.
The grief which she feels nearly crushes her spirit and evokes the
sympathies of her neighbors, as well it may. She finds a bitterness
within her heart which it is difficult to sweeten into resignation. Why
should the blow have singled her as its object? Then, with the lapse of
the days, comes a change of the season, and the wonderful climatic
effects on both mind and body accompanying them. She wanders into the
woods, and the rustling of the leaves beneath her feet betrays her from
her dead husband for the first time, and her
CONSCIENCE, THE SOLEMN OFFICER
of her moral nature, suddenly arrests a little girl wandering in the
woods in search of a butternut tree which lives like a hermit in the
deep of the forest.
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