THE $30,000 BEQUEST and Other Stories by Mark Twain

In Philadelphia they have a custom which it would be pleasant

to see adopted throughout the land. It is that of appending to

published death-notices a little verse or two of comforting poetry.

Any one who is in the habit of reading the daily Philadelphia

LEDGER must frequently be touched by these plaintive tributes

to extinguished worth. In Philadelphia, the departure of a child

is a circumstance which is not more surely followed by a burial

than by the accustomed solacing poesy in the PUBLIC LEDGER.

In that city death loses half its terror because the knowledge

of its presence comes thus disguised in the sweet drapery of verse.

For instance, in a late LEDGER I find the following (I change

the surname):

DIED

Hawks.–On the 17th inst., Clara, the daughter of Ephraim

and Laura Hawks, aged 21 months and 2 days.

That merry shout no more I hear,

No laughing child I see,

No little arms are around my neck,

No feet upon my knee;

No kisses drop upon my cheek,

These lips are sealed to me.

Dear Lord, how could I give Clara up

To any but to Thee?

A child thus mourned could not die wholly discontented.

From the LEDGER of the same date I make the following extract,

merely changing the surname, as before:

Becket.–On Sunday morning, 19th inst., John P., infant son

of George and Julia Becket, aged 1 year, 6 months, and 15 days.

That merry shout no more I hear,

No laughing child I see,

No little arms are round my neck,

No feet upon my knee;

No kisses drop upon my cheek;

These lips are sealed to me.

Dear Lord, how could I give Johnnie up

To any but to Thee?

The similarity of the emotions as produced in the mourners in these

two instances is remarkably evidenced by the singular similarity

of thought which they experienced, and the surprising coincidence

of language used by them to give it expression.

In the same journal, of the same date, I find the following

(surname suppressed, as before):

Wagner.–On the 10th inst., Ferguson G., the son of William

L. and Martha Theresa Wagner, aged 4 weeks and 1 day.

That merry shout no more I hear,

No laughing child I see,

No little arms are round my neck,

No feet upon my knee;

No kisses drop upon my cheek,

These lips are sealed to me.

Dear Lord, how could I give Ferguson up

To any but to Thee?

It is strange what power the reiteration of an essentially poetical

thought has upon one’s feelings. When we take up the LEDGER

and read the poetry about little Clara, we feel an unaccountable

depression of the spirits. When we drift further down the column

and read the poetry about little Johnnie, the depression and spirits

acquires and added emphasis, and we experience tangible suffering.

When we saunter along down the column further still and read

the poetry about little Ferguson, the word torture but vaguely

suggests the anguish that rends us.

In the LEDGER (same copy referred to above) I find the following

(I alter surname, as usual):

Welch.–On the 5th inst., Mary C. Welch, wife of William B. Welch,

and daughter of Catharine and George W. Markland, in the 29th year

of her age.

A mother dear, a mother kind,

Has gone and left us all behind.

Cease to weep, for tears are vain,

Mother dear is out of pain.

Farewell, husband, children dear,

Serve thy God with filial fear,

And meet me in the land above,

Where all is peace, and joy, and love.

What could be sweeter than that? No collection of salient facts

(without reduction to tabular form) could be more succinctly stated

than is done in the first stanza by the surviving relatives,

and no more concise and comprehensive program of farewells,

post-mortuary general orders, etc., could be framed in any

form than is done in verse by deceased in the last stanza.

These things insensibly make us wiser and tenderer, and better.

Another extract:

Ball.–On the morning of the 15th inst., Mary E., daughter of John

and Sarah F. Ball.

‘Tis sweet to rest in lively hope

That when my change shall come

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