King, Kilter, Kay, Kaiser, I went, running over names
at random, and then stumbled, with ludicrous
misspelling, on Kornelius, and had nearly laughed
aloud. I have never been more childish; I suppose
(although the deeper voices of my nature seemed all
dumb) because I have never been more moved. And at
this last incongruous antic of my nerves I was seized
with a panic of remorse, and fled the cemetery.
Scarce less funereal was the rest of my experience in
Muskegon, where, nevertheless, I lingered, visiting my
father's circle, for some days. It was in piety to him
I lingered; and I might have spared myself the pain.
His memory was already quite gone out. For his sake,
indeed, I was made welcome; and for mine the
conversation rolled a while with laborious effort on
the virtues of the deceased. His former comrades
dwelt, in my company, upon his business talents or his
generosity for public purposes: when my back was
turned, they remembered him no more. My father had
loved me; I had left him alone, to live and die among
the indifferent; now I returned to find him dead and
buried and forgotten.
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