I obtained permission to go in
once more and look upon him as he lay shrouded for the grave. I was then
a child of ten years, but even at that early age I had not that morbid
terror of looking upon death, so common among children. With my own
hands, I folded back the napkin which covered his face, and gazed upon
his aged, but now serene, countenance. There was nothing in his
appearance to inspire terror, and for a moment I placed my hand on his
cold brow. He had ever been very kind to me, and I regarded him with
much affection, and the tears coursed freely down my cheeks when I
looked my last upon his familiar countenance now lifeless and sealed in
death. I have forgotten his exact age, but I know it exceeded seventy
years. It so happened that I did not attend his funeral; but he was
followed to the grave by a large number of friends and neighbours, many
of whom still live to cherish his memory.
STORY OF A LOG CABIN.[A]
[A] I lately came across this sketch in an old Magazine, bearing the
date of 1842, and, thinking others might be as much interested by it as
I was myself, I transcribe it in an abridged form to the pages of this
volume.
It was a dreary day in autumn.
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