No. 18


He died surrounded by his children. A tempest roared over the harbor, but applewood glowed in his fireplace. When the next breath failed him, there was a flutter in the room as if a bird had flown, or as he would have said himself, had h-h-hatched.

Man’s monuments prolong him briefly; his children, who are another word for his love, may extend him forever. No. 18 leaves five hundred buildings as a reminder, and a round fifty descendants. None, in the sixty-three years since he fainted at the altar, had preceded him, and there are more to follow. They cannot repine.