Oh, could it be that that form, so
cold and motionless, clad in the white habiliments of the grave, was
that of the once lovely and fascinating Annie Howard? Were those lips
that were wont to entrance with their melody forever sealed in death?
Would those eyes never again beam with the light of affection, or
kindle with the glow of enthusiasm? Oh, how forcibly were we reminded
that "passing away" is written upon all things here below, and that
the fairest forms that walk the earth, in all the pride of beauty,
must go down to the dark, cold grave, to be food for the loathesome
worm. With slow and faltering steps, and with tear-suffused eyes,
we followed the remains to the narrow house, appointed for all the
living; and then mournfully returned to our homes, to muse upon the
uncertainty, and the perishable nature of all earthly joys.
Annie Howard was one of my earliest and dearest friends, and thinking
that, perhaps, her history might be interesting to some who may chance
to peruse these pages, I have endeavored, although but imperfectly, to
give a brief sketch of her life.
She was the only child of wealthy and highly respectable parents.
Possessed of refined and cultivated minds, they were anxious that
their daughter should be educated in all the more solid branches,
which would render her a useful member of society, as well as the
lighter graces and accomplishments which, too often, in the present
day, supercede the cultivation of the mind.
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