en the
bitterness of thy first sorrow, or is it yet to come? Thinkest thou there
is a way of escape--none, unless thou art young, and Death interpose,
saving thee from all sadness, and writing on thy grave, "Do not weep for
me, thou knowest not how much of sorrow this early tomb has saved me."

When were thy first thoughts of death? I do not mean the sight of the
coffin, the pall, or any of its sad accompaniments, but the time when the
mind first arrested itself with the melancholy convictions of mortality.
There was a holiday for me in my young days, to which I looked forward as
the Mohammedan to his Paradise; this was a visit to a country-place, where
I revelled in the breath of the woodbines and sweetbriers, and where I sat
under tall and spreading trees, and wondered why towns and cities were ever
built. The great willows swept the windows of the chamber where I slept,
and faces with faded eyes looked upon me from their old frames, by the
moonlight, as I fell asleep, after the day's enjoyment. I never tired of
wandering through the gardens, where were roses and sweet-williams,
hyacinths and honeysuckles, and flowers of every shape and hue. This was
the fairy spot of my recollection, for even childhood has its cares, and
there were memories of little griefs, which time has never chased away.
There I used to meet two children, who often roamed through the near woods
with me. I do not remember their ages nor their names; they were younger
though than I. They might not have been beautiful, but I recollect the
bright eyes, and that downy velvet hue that is only found on the soft check
of infancy.

Summer came; and when I went again, I found the clematis sweeping the
garden walks, and the lilies-of-the-valley bending under the weight of
their own beauty. So we walked along, I and an old servant, stopping to
enter an arbor, or to raise the head of a drooping plant, or to pluck a
sweet-scented shrub, and place it in my bosom. "Where are the little
girls?" I asked. "Have they come again, too?"

"Yes, they are here," she said, as we approached two little mounds, covered
over with the dark-green myrtle and its purple flowers.

"What is here?"

"Child, here are the little ones you asked for."

Oh! those little myrtle-covered graves, how wonderingly I gazed upon them.
There was no thought of death mingled with my meditation; there was, of
quiet and repose, but not of death. I had seen no sickness, no suffering,
and I only