Be thou not over sad,I think I have read enough to show those of us who had not the privilege of Mrs. Lowe's acquaintance that she was a woman of genuine love for nature and for man, of fine perceptions, and of a considerable degree of skill in the art of verse-making. If her muse responds more readily to the melancholy than to the joyous note in human life, we can remind ourselves of what one of the greatest American poets and critics has urged: that a ‘certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the higher manifestations of true beauty.’ And so the end is reached of our roll of authors that have passed away. If we have not found rivals of the greater poets of America, if our story writers have still something to learn from those of England and France, surely a beginning has been made, and the end is not yet. The living writers of our city are as numerous, as industrious, as well equipped in endowment and literary art as their predecessors. We will not boast of our achievement, past or present. But it is safe to say that in history, in fiction, and in poetry, Somerville has authors whom she well may cherish. We need not name them; we know them. Let us expect that they will try themselves by high standards, that they will not be content with what they have already done, that they will strive to lift our city among those rare historic places where men and women have lived who have uttered in the best way the best that was in them.
Dear ancient town in thy affliction sore;
Think that what thou hast had
Is thine to keep and give forevermore.
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