To a Friend, on the Death of a Wife.
Burlington, Iowa, Nov. 10, 18—.
My Dear Delwin:
I know that this letter will find you filled with grief at the loss of your dear wife. You have, indeed, suffered a great affliction. A more faithful partner never lived, and few men, I venture to say, eyer enjoyed more domestic tranquility than yourself.
A true wife, and a devoted mother! No higher eulogy can be pronounced upon any woman. How the little motherless children will miss her tender care! How those fragile little girls will miss her sweet presence at the evening hour, when she sat by the bedside and listened to their innocent prayers, soothing their little spirits as they dropped off to sleep! Truly fhe great central sun of your household has gone down, and I most truly, deeply sympathize with you in your affliction.
Let us hope, however, in the language of Scripture, "I go to prepare a place for you," that, in the golden summer of another life, children, mother and father will gather again in a sweet reunion, where partings are unknown.
Though the days are dark now, spring will come once more. Thus, I trust, pleasant days will come again for you and yours.
Send both of the little girls to our home for a month's visit, and come yourself as soon as you can find time to do so. My previously arranged departure, to-morrow, prevents my visiting you.
Your Friend,
S. B. OSGOOD.
Henderson, Kentucky.
To a Friend, on the Death of a Sister.
Auburn, N. Y., July 16, 18—.
Dear Friend:
I have learned, with sorrow, of the death of your sister Helen. Though I never knew her personally, I knew her so well through you, that it seems as if I, myself, had lost a very near and intimate friend. I recollect her from that sweet face and gentleness of manner, as I saw her once in your company, that impressed me with the belief that she was one of the angelic ones of earth.
I know how deeply you must have grieved at her death. No one could mourn her loss so truly as yourself. Younger than you, frail and delicate, her guardianship entrusted to yourself, confiding everything to you, it was natural that to a sister's affection should be added, also, almost a mother's love for your gentle sister Helen. She died, too, at a time when life was apparently all blossoming before her. How hard to reconcile ourselves to the loss of dear kindred, when their continued presence is so necessary to our happiness. But may we not hope that the same sweet voice, and gentle, confiding heart, that was so dear to sister and kindred here, is waiting for you in the summer land? "Not dead, but gone before."
The loss of near friends thus calls for our contemplation of another life toward which we are all tending. You and I, dear M., have talked these matters over often. I know you expect to meet her on the other side; so do I. Believing that your faith in that golden, sunny Future, which you and I have so often considered, will sustain you, I am,
Your Ever Faithful Friend,
JAS. D. HENRY.
To a Friend, on the Death of a Daughter.
Hartford, Conn., Nov. 14, 18—.
My Dear Friend:
It is with profound sorrow that I have heard of the death of dear Mary. While you have lost a dutiful and affectionate daughter, I have lost one of the dearest friends on earth. Outside of yourself, I am confident no one could more fully appreciate her loss than myself. We were so much together that I can hardly reconcile myself to the thought that I can no more meet her here. True, her death teaches us that, sooner or later, we must all make the journey across that mystic river. The angels called, and, in the ways of an all-wise Providence, it was best that she should go. We all have the ordeal to pass. Fortunate it would be if all could be as certain of being among the exalted angels as was our darling Mary. I will
come and see you soon. A propos, I send you this little poem, "The Covered Bridge."
Your Friend,
MYRA.
THE COVERED BRIDGE.
BY DAVID BARKER.
Tell the fainting soul in the weary form,
There's a world of the purest bliss,
That is linked, as the soul and form are linked,
By a Covered Bridge, with this.
Yet to reach that realm on the other shore
We must pass through a transient gloom,
And must walk, unseen, unhelped, and alone,
Through that Covered Bridge—the tomb.
But we all pass over on equal terms,
For the universal toll
Is the outer garb, which the hand of God
Has flung around the soul.
Though the eye is dim, and the bridge is dark,
And the river it spans is wide,
Yet Faith points through to a shining mount,
That looms on the other side.
To enable our feet in the next day's march
To climb up that golden ridge,
We must all lie down for one night's rest
Inside of the Covered Bridge.
To a Friend, on the Death of an Infant.
Pemberton, Miss., Nov. 18, 18—.
My Dear Friend:
I realize that this letter will find you buried in the deepest sorrow at the loss of your darling little Emma, and that words of mine will be entirely inadequate to assuage your overwhelming grief; yet I feel that I must write a few words to assure you that I am thinking of you and praying for you.
If there can be a compensating thought, it is that your darling returned to the God who gave it, pure and unspotted by the world's temptations.
The white rose and bud, I send, I trust you will permit to rest upon your darling's pillow.
With feelings of the deepest sympathy, I remain, dear friend,
Yours, Very Sincerely,
MARION BRADSHAW.
To a Friend, on a Sudden Reverse of Fortune.
Hannibal, Mo., Aug. 18, 18—.
Friend Stewart:
I regret to hear of your sudden and unexpected heavy loss, and hasten to offer you, not only my earnest sympathy, but aid in whatever way I can assist you.
I know your energy and hopeful spirit too well to believe that you will allow this to depress or discourage you from further effort. Perhaps there is, somewhere, a blessing in this reverse. I have had my dark days, but I learned to trust the truth of that little stanza of Cowvitae
"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face."
The child learns to walk after many falls, and many of our richest and most prosperous men have attained their eminence and wealth only by the experience resulting from failure.
I predict that you will build on your ruins a brilliant future. How can I serve you? Let me know; by so doing, I shall understand that you have not ceased to value my friendship.
Sincerely Your Friend,
HERBERT D. WRIGHT.
Singleton, Me.
