But as a matter of fact, neither of these things did happen in
this quiet community of ours. There exists, assuredly, a logic of
events, oh, a terrible, irresistible logic of events, but it is
careless of the span of any one man's life. We would like to have
each man enjoy the sweets of his own virtues and suffer the lash
of his own misdeeds--but it rarely so happens in life. No, it is
the community which lives or dies, is regenerated or marred by
the deeds of men.
So Old Toombs continued to live. So he continued to buy more
land, raise more cattle, collect more interest, and the wonderful
hedge continued to flaunt its marvels still more notably upon the
country road. To what end? Who knows? Who knows?
I saw him afterward from time to time, tried to maintain some
sort of friendly relations with him; but it seemed as the years
passed that he grew ever lonelier and more bitter, and not only
more friendless, but seemingly more incapable of friendliness. In
times past I have seen what men call tragedies--I saw once a
perfect young man die in his strength--but it seems to me I never
knew anything more tragic than the life and death of Old Toombs.
If it cannot be said of a man when he dies that either his
nation, his state, his neighborhood, his family, or at least his
wife or child, is better for his having lived, what CAN be said
for him?
Old Toombs is dead.
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