The following article was suggested and started while sympathizing with a neighbor’s family in the loss of a young child stricken suddenly by death, but was not completed until after the death of a much loved lady school teacher, when it was finished on the request that I write something for the memorial exercises, February, 1894. I was very busy at the time and this, my first literary wrestle with Death, was hot and fast.
Hail, Death! But why need we hail thee?
Thou comest without our call;
Yea, thou comest when wanted not.
Thou comest when and where thou wilt,
And choosest whom thou wilt.
Thou art no respecter of time, or conditions.
Thou takest thy victims from every age and station.
None so venerable that thou would’st spare them;
None so strong thou canst not conquer them:
None so pure as to be exempted;
None so humble as to escape thy notice.
The good and the bad are at thy mercy;
Nay, not that, for thou hast no mercy.
Wherever man goest, thou goest,
The deepest caverns of earth;
The highest mountain top;
The darkest, densest forest;
A thousand miles of stormy sea afford no protection.
Go whither man may, thou pursuest him;
Side by side thou marchest with him, like a treacherous friend, ready at any moment to become his murderer.
The barricades of parental love that shield the tender lives of innocent childhood, are as cobwebs before thy relentless power for destruction.
Naught can stay thy gluttonous appetite for victims.
If thou hadst discretion we would fear thee less; but thy cruel drag net is set for all, and there is no escape from thy devouring grasp.
We charge thee, Death, with unwonted cruelty.
There are those whom thou might’st spare for the general good,
These are the young, the happy, and the useful; innocent babes in their mother’s arms; prattling darlings on their father’s knees;
happy boys and girls in the temples of learning, active and ambitious young men and young women, these, all these are some only whom thou could’st pass by for a time when reaping thy harvest.
There is another class, Death, whom I would plead for: it is that noble class engaged in the high calling of training the youthful mind and fitting it for the duties of life.
If thou would’st spare any, spare these.
Enter not, O cruel Death! Enter not the school house door.
Rob us not of the noble teachers, whose loving-kindness, gentle words, and pleasant smiles, have drawn around them the heart strings of affectionate children, unused to sorrows, untrained in the mysteries and miseries of life.
Lacerate not their tender hearts.
Break not these strong ties of affection.
Stand off! Keep away! Lay not your tyrant hands on loving childhood’s noble friend.
But I plead in vain.
My prayer comes too late.
It would have come too late had it come sooner.
All human ingenuity, all human power falls before thee, Death.
Thou ridest rough shod over all man’s contrivances to hold thee back.
Thou enterest every gate, every house, and to thy shame it would be said if thou hadst shame, or any sensation, thou hast crossed the threshold of the school house door.
A hundred hearts are mourning, two hundred eyes are weeping, for the flower of their concentrated love, the golden rod of their admiration, a noble woman, a kind teacher, a loving friend, has been torn from them mercilessly, wantonly, cruelly—and thou art the robber.
Thou art exposed, Death; this act betrays thee; thou art a monster.
Come now, Death, we challenge thee to combat.
Be a heartless monster no longer.
Choose thee “foemen worthy of your steel.”
Choose the white haired, the aged who fear thee not.
Withdraw, coward! From the unequal contest thou wagest against the young, and
the feeble, and those who love this life not knowing its hardships.
Come on, tyrant! Cross arms with your equals!
We, the aged; we, the experienced; we, who are weary of the world; we, who are sinking down, being crushed into the earth by the heavy burthens of life, care not for thee.
Come on! Strike us! Spare the young, strike us!
We know that thou wilt win the final battle.
We know that we shall soon be numbered among thy victims, and yet we dare thee to tackle us.
We can not stop thy murderous progress, and yet we seek to check thy course.
We fain would keep thee busy, wrestling with the old and gray, and give thee no time to search for the young the hopeful, and the happy.
We, the old, crippled by disease;
Worn out with trials and disappointments;
With great sorrows in our hearts, that never can be taken away.
We who have suffered from thy cruelties, and know full well thy unconquerable power, nevertheless defy thee.
We dare thee! We taunt thee! We challenge thee to mortal combat!
We are weak and wounded, and are fast nearing the brink of the dark chasm of eternity, and we implore thee, monster, tyrant, demon that thou art, to busy thyself with blotting out our poor lives, that the young and innocent, the pure and useful, and all those who are healthy and happy, and all those who love this life, and have friends to love, and friends that love them, may be spared to enjoy this beautiful world.
A TRIBUTE
To the Memory of Mrs. Hon. Justin R. Whiting, a brilliant woman. May 22nd, 1900.