AT a certain point of the ascent Mount St. Gotthard bloomed into an actual garden of forget-me-nots.
Unforgotten and never to be forgotten that lovely lavish efflorescence which made earth cerulean as the sky.
Thus I remember the mountain. But without that flower of memory could I have forgotten it?
Surely not: yet there, not elsewhere, a countless multitude of forget-me-nots made their home.
Such oftentimes seems the principle of allotment (if reverently I may term it so) among the human family. Many persons whose chief gifts taken one by one would suffice to memorialize them, engross not those only but along with them the winning graces which endear. Forget-me-nots enamel the height.
And what shall they do, who display neither loftiness nor loveliness? If "one member be honored, all the members rejoice with it."
Or, if this standard appears too exalted for frail flesh and blood to attain, then send thought onwards.
The crowning summit of Mount St. Gotthard abides invested, not with flowers, but with perpetual snow: not with life, but with lifelessness.
In foresight of the grace, whither we all are hastening, is it worth while to envy any? "There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest." "Grudge not one against another, brethren, lest ye be condemned: behold, the Judge standeth before the door."