assumes such a deceptive appearance as a consumption. In its early
stages it will often work so insidiously on the constitution, that
its subject is unconscious of its presence; and even, when it
has advanced to a very considerable extent, there are generally
those intervals of vigour and vivacity, that occasion sanguine
expectations of a recovery to be entertained even to the last.
And it is during these seasons, when the animal spirits return
with great force--giving a degree of energy and activity which is
regarded as an unequivocal proof of restored health, that exertions
are made by walking and by visiting, which often accelerate the
fatal issue. To confine to the house the invalid, who longs to
breathe the fresh air, or to keep her out of company, when the
pleasures of social intercourse relieve the spirits from languor,
is a task which the kindness of friendship cannot always perform;
and hence she is often permitted to run the risk of shortening her
life by efforts which exhaust her strength; or by exposures to the
keen night air, which give a fresh impetus to the disease. It was
during one of these intervals of renewed strength that Miss Holmes
was induced to pay a visit to a family, who resided about two miles
off; and though her father proposed to take her in a carriage, she
preferred walking. She reached her friends' house without feeling
fatigued; after dinner enjoyed a ramble in the country; and then,
having taken tea, returned to Dawlish. It was a pleasant evening,
but the air was rather cold; and though she bore the exertions of
the day with great cheerfulness, yet before she got home she began
to feel exhausted. On entering the drawing-room, she threw herself
on the sofa, and said, "I fear I have gone beyond my strength."
After resting herself some time, she retired for the night; but
when she awoke in the morning, instead of rising at her usual hour,
she requested to have her breakfast in bed. At noon she made her
appearance amongst the family, in apparently good spirits; but her
mother, who had watched the progress of her disorder with deep
anxiety, felt alarmed on seeing the hectic flush on her cheek,
accompanied by an occasional cough. Towards the evening the height
of her pulse was considerably increased; the palms of her hands
became dry and hot, and she complained of being chilly. These
symptoms excited fresh alarm; yet, as they came on immediately
after the fatigue of a long day's excursion, her friends flattered
themselves that they would go off when she had taken another night's
rest; but in this they were disappointed. On the following morning
they assumed a more threatening aspect; her cough became more
troublesome, the pain in her side returned, and though she appeared
cheerful, yet it was accompanied by an unusual gravity of look and
manner. At length it was judged expedient to call in a medical man,
who prescribed some medicines that afforded her a little temporary
relief. When asked for his opinion, he said, "I do not despair of
her recovery, though she must be very cautious. She must not exert
herself beyond her strength, nor yet expose herself to the night
air." The following letter, written to her friend Miss Martin, whom
the reader will remember accompanying Miss Holmes to call on Mrs.
Kent,[30] exhibits the state of her mind at this critical period:--
"MY DEAR MARY,--An all-wise Providence has been pleased to
guide my steps once more to Dawlish, where we expect to spend a
few months. In revisiting it again, I naturally advert to that
period of my life when I was living in a state of alienation
from God--devoted to the pleasures and vanities of the world.
Happy should I now be to ramble with you through this beautiful
country, and talk of Him who lived and died for sinners; but,
as that pleasure is denied me, I will converse with you through
a more circuitous medium. You are aware that our journey here
is mainly on my account. On my arrival I grew much better,
and continued for some weeks to improve in my general health;
but a short time ago I caught a severe cold, and have never
been well since. Though my friends still cling to hope, as
the sinking mariner hangs on the broken plank of the vessel,
till the returning wave comes to drive him off, I am now very
apprehensive as to the result. I know that my heavenly Father
can lengthen out the thread of my life, and restore to full
vigorous health the constitution which disease is gradually
wasting away; but I think He is about to remove me. It costs,
indeed, a hard struggle to view with composure the approach of
death at my age, and nothing could reconcile me to it but the
hope of immortality by which I feel animated and sustained. My
Alfred is with me, and his kind attentions often depress me.
He is still anticipating the day when he shall lead me to the
altar; but alas! fond youth, I am marked out as a victim for
the grave! Yes! and though I still feel I love him, yet I must
give him up, and all the prospects which open before me on this
side the tomb, to go and dwell with Him whom unseen I love! But
'thy will, O my Father, be done!'
"Though I have received the sentence of death, I do not expect
that it will be executed speedily. No! I shall not be taken till
all are prepared to resign me; and till every tie is loosened
which now fastens my affections to 'things seen and temporal.'
This is a kind provision which our heavenly Father usually makes
to afford some alleviation to the sorrow of surviving friends;
and to enable his children to retire from this vale of life,
without retaining any lingering desires for a longer continuance
in it.
"I have hitherto concealed from the eyes of others the most
alarming symptoms of my complaint, nor have I yet given them an
intimation of my own opinion; as I do not feel inclined to be
at present the bearer of such heavy tidings. They still try to
amuse me with the visions of futurity, and talk of my marriage
with Alfred, and all its attendant circumstances, as if length
of days was appointed for me: and though I feel conscious that
a few months, unless a miracle of mercy prevent, will change
the theme of social discourse, yet I cannot bring my mind to
the severe trial of attempting to banish these fond hopes and
anticipations from others.
"I am happy to inform you that my dear sister Emma is become
decidedly pious. Her severe afflictions have had a salutary
effect; and now, being purified and softened by their influence,
she exhibits the features of the Christian character in all
their attractive loveliness. Her natural volatility and
satirical humour are now transformed to chastened vivacity and
the sportive sallies of innocent wit.
"I need not say how much I should enjoy your company at Dawlish,
if you could make it convenient to pay us a visit; but as that
is too great an indulgence for me to expect, you will not
refuse me the gratification of hearing from you as soon as
possible. All here join me in kindest love to you, and your
Papa and Mamma, who, I trust, are both enjoying their usual good
health.--I am, yours most affectionately,
LOUISA."
[30] Vol. ii. p. 297.
To this letter Miss Martin returned the following reply:--
"LONDON, _15th September, 18--_.
"MY DEAR LOUISA,--I received yours of the 10th, but it is not
possible for me to describe the impressions which it produced
on my mind. I alternately wept tears of sorrow and of joy; and
though that overpowering excitement, which its first reading
produced, has somewhat subsided, yet I feel almost incapable of
replying. And is the wise Disposer of all events about to remove
you from amongst us? And have you, at such a comparatively early
period of the spiritual contest, fought the good fight of faith,
and gained the crown which fadeth not away? If so, I will say,
'Happy, thrice happy saint!' thou art highly favoured of the
Lord! Yes, you will soon see the King in his beauty, and mingle
your notes of praise with the multitude around his throne! You
will soon partake of the fulness of joy, in which the spirits of
the just made perfect participate!
"But how can we give you up? How can we take this cup of sorrow
without praying that it may pass from us? How can we offer up
the prayer, 'Thy will, O Father, be done on earth, even as it
is done in heaven,' without feeling it quiver on our lips as we
attempt to utter it? I now find that entire resignation to the
Divine will, when those objects are placed in jeopardy on which
our affections are strongly fixed, is an attainment which I have
not yet acquired; and though I doubt not but the grace of Christ
will be found sufficient for its full display, when the day of
trial comes, yet, at the present moment, I am bowed down with so
much heaviness of soul that I cannot give vent to my feelings.
What a contrast do you exhibit! While I am restless, under the
agitations of fear, you are calm, in the anticipations of hope!
While I am praying that you may still be detained amongst us, to
share our joys and our sorrows, you are fluttering on the wings
of eager expectation, ready to say, as you soar away from us,
'Weep not for me, but weep for yourselves.' Happy spirit!
"Indeed, my dear Louisa, your sweet composure at this awful
crisis--your bright anticipations, viewed in connection with
your attachment to your friends around you, have given me such
an exalted opinion of the efficacy of the Christian faith to
sustain the human spirit on the great occasions of its history,
that I am not so much astonished at your tranquil joy, as I am
at my own timid misgivings; and though I still hope I possess
the faith which is the evidence of things not seen, yet in me
it is small, like the grain of mustard seed, while in you it
resembles the wide-spreading tree, beneath whose branches you
rest in safety.
"As you, my dear Louisa, when drawing nearer the closing
scene, may be subjected to the influence of the fears which
not unfrequently disturb the peace of the dying Christian, I
have taken the liberty of sending you an extract from a very
interesting memoir, which I have just read with great pleasure,
and which, with a degree of precision we rarely meet with in
theological works, points out the difference between faith and
hope.
"'This difference,' the writer justly observes, 'is not always
sufficiently attended to; and much presumption on the one hand,
and despondency on the other, have arisen from confounding them.
One person considers himself a believer of high attainments,
because he entertains no doubt of his being in a state of
salvation; and another doubts whether he be a believer at all,
because he cannot persuade himself that his sins are forgiven.
But it is obvious that two distinct and very different acts
of the mind are here confounded and blended together;--one,
which assents to the fact of Jesus Christ being the only and
all-sufficient Saviour of sinners; and which places a reliance
on the atoning sacrifice, for pardon of sin and acceptance
with God, which is the province of _faith_; and another, which
appropriates to itself the blessings of this salvation, and
confidently expects a future state of felicity, which is the
province of _hope_. Now, it is clear that these persuasions
of the mind may exist separately from each other; and that one
of them may be very strong, whilst the other has scarcely any
existence at all. St. Paul clearly recognizes this distinction,
when he offers up a prayer for the Romans, that the God of hope
would fill them with all joy and peace in believing. It is
here implied that genuine faith may exist without either joy
or peace; and by addressing his prayer to 'the God of hope,'
he remarks that joy and peace are the fruits of hope, and are
distinct blessings to be superadded to the grace of faith.'
"I regret that it is not in my power to visit you at Dawlish,
but I assure you that I have you in my remembrance, when bowing
before the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ; and while I
pray that you may yet be spared to us, I do not forget to pray,
that if you are to be removed, you may be favoured with a joyful
entrance into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord Jesus Christ.
You will present my kind affection to your dear parents, and
your sisters.--Your affectionate friend,
MARY."
The alarming symptoms which immediately followed this return of
Miss Holmes' disorder, suddenly disappeared, and she was once more
restored to comparative health, though it was evident to all her
friends that the vigour of her constitution was greatly impaired.
She was again permitted to resume her rambles, and to breathe the
genial air of Dawlish, which once more enlivened her spirits. As she
now felt able to endure the fatigues of exertion, she was induced to
comply with the wishes of her kind friends in the country, to pay
them another visit. She rode there and back, and cautiously avoided
running any risk, either by too much exertion, or by any exposure to
damps or cold.
On reaching home, she changed her dress, and soon after retired
to rest; but on awakening in the morning, felt a hoarseness,
accompanied by a slight fever. She remained within for several days,
but on the following Sabbath, felt so much better that she ventured
to go to chapel, where she commemorated the death of the Redeemer.
This religious service she afterwards spoke of as one of the most
impressive and the happiest of her life. When adverting to it, in a
letter which she wrote to Mrs. Loader, she observed, "I have often
felt a great degree of solemnity and delight when receiving the
sacramental memorials of the Saviour's death; but last Sabbath, at
chapel, I felt a joy which was unspeakable and full of glory. When
the minister repeated the memorable words, 'This do in remembrance
of me,' I could not refrain from saying, in the language of Dr.
Watts,
'Why was I made to hear his voice,
And enter while there's room;
While thousands make a wretched choice,
And rather starve than come?'
"I think I have more than once alluded, in my free correspondence
with you, to my ceaseless dread of self-deception; and this makes
me hesitate to ascribe to a supernatural operation, the religious
impressions and tendencies of my heart; yet, on this occasion, I
could respond to the following declarations with perfect composure:--
''Twas the same love that spread the feast
That sweetly forced me in;
Else I had still refused to taste,
And perished in my sin.'
"Till that morning a gloomy shade always darkened my prospects
of the future; but then the true light shone into me with such
a bright radiance, that I abounded in hope through the power of
the Holy Ghost. I retired from the hallowed service refreshed and
invigorated; and in the evening, when denied the privilege of
returning to the house of prayer, I made a more solemn surrender
of myself to God, than at any former period. What scenes of wonder
opened to my view! The Lord of life and glory expiring on the cross!
The high and lofty One condescending to admit a sinful creature
into his presence! The Saviour making intercession for me! The gay
and the thoughtless may pour contempt on the sublime pleasures of
devotion, and rush for happiness into a world which abounds with
evil; and under the spell of a fatal illusion, may imagine they
have found it. But our joys would be ill exchanged for theirs;
and though it may not be in our power, while encompassed with the
infirmities of our nature, to perpetuate the vivid impressions which
we sometimes receive, yet they serve to demonstrate the superlative
value of the faith which originates them; and may also tend to
inspire within our breast an intense longing for that fulness of
joy in which the spirits of the just made perfect are allowed to
participate in the heavenly world."
A few days after Louisa's visit to the chapel, the symptoms of her
complaint returned with renewed violence. The physician was again
sent for, and on entering the room, she said, with a smile on her
countenance, "I am happy to see you, Sir; but I am now convinced
that my disorder is beyond your power to remove."
"Perhaps not."
"Yes, Sir, it is; God can restore me if he please, but I do not
expect it."
He sat and conversed with her about a quarter of an hour, and then
left her.
"Pray, Sir," said Mrs. Holmes, "what is your opinion?"
"She is very ill, Madam."
"Do you think it is a confirmed consumption?"
"I do. I fear the disease has made great progress."
"Do you think that a longer continuance in the country will prove
beneficial to the dear sufferer?"
"To be candid, Madam, I do not think that it is in the power
of human means to arrest the progress of the disease, though a
judicious course of management may greatly alleviate her sufferings."
"Do you think, Sir, she can be removed without much inconvenience to
herself?"
"She may, in the course of a few days, when her strength rallies;
but I am clearly of opinion, that if you wait much longer, it will
be impossible to remove her."
This information came as a death-blow to the hopes of all the
family. Mrs. Holmes, with Jane and Emma, sobbed aloud. A more
silent though not less poignant grief marked the countenances of her
father and Mr. Reed. "If she must die," said her father, "she had
better be taken home to die." "My Louisa die! My dear Louisa die!"
said Alfred, clasping his hands in an intensity of anguish, "And
must she die? and must she be taken from me?" At length he became
more composed, when informed by Mrs. Holmes that Louisa had just
awaked out of a sweet sleep, much revived, and wished to see him.
The family sat conversing together the whole of the evening, and
arranged the plan for returning to the Elms, whither they determined
to proceed immediately.
For the space of a fortnight after her return home, Miss Holmes
continued to improve so rapidly in appearance that the hope of life
began to beam once more upon all except herself. At this time she
wrote the following letter to Miss Martin, who had now gone with her
parents to Hastings for a short period:--
"MY DEAR MARY,--A kind Providence has permitted me to see the
Elms once more, and once more to commune with my absent friend
from my own room, a privilege which I could not have anticipated
a few weeks since. After the reception of your kind letter, my
disorder took a turn, and we again thought that the bitterness
of death was passed; but in the midst of our joy the symptoms
reappeared, and I was brought near to the grave. I have again
revived, but it is only to protract my course for a little
time longer. I may live through the winter, and I may live to
see another spring opening with all its beauties, but I do not
expect it. The symptoms of death are upon me. The silver cord
is broken, and my affections are dying off from earth. I am
beginning to feel as a stranger amongst my most endeared friends
and relatives; and though their sorrows excite my sympathy,
yet I have no wish to remain here longer. No! I hear a voice
they do not hear, and see a form of beauty they cannot see. I
long to depart. I can look through my window on the walks which
wind round our shrubbery, without wishing to retrace my former
footsteps. I can muse on the pleasures which I have enjoyed in
the social circle, without desiring to taste them again. I still
feel that I am a sinner--an unworthy sinner; my perceptions of
the evil of sin are more clear and affecting than at any former
period of my life; and at times I am almost overwhelmed by the
indescribable manifestations of the Divine purity; but it hath
pleased God to impart to me corresponding views of the efficacy
of the precious blood of Christ, so that I have no fears
ruffling my peace. I am entering the valley, but it is not dark:
nor do I hear any sounds but those of Mercy's voice. The enemy
has not yet been suffered to stir up his strength against me,
nor have I been once tempted to mistrust either the fidelity of
the Saviour, or his willingness to save me. I thank you for the
extract which you sent me. It defines the essential difference
between faith and hope with great accuracy and precision; but
I have now done with all human compositions. The only book
I now read is the Bible. This is the fountain from whence I
now draw the pure water of life; and though I feel thankful
for the writings of those good men which have contributed to
my spiritual improvement and consolation, yet, like withered
flowers, they have lost their beauty and their fragrance.
"I do not think that I should have preferred any other period
of my existence for my departure, to the present, even if I had
been permitted to choose. If I had been taken earlier, I should
have left some of my relatives in the gall of bitterness; and if
spared longer, I might have left some hapless children; but now
I can embrace all as fellow-heirs of the grace of life, who are
nearly allied to me by the ties of nature, and I can quit the
world without leaving any chasm which may not soon be closed. My
friends will weep over my grave, but the hope of a re-union in
a better world will mitigate the violence of their sorrow; and
soon the days of their mourning will be ended, and earth will be
exchanged for heaven.
"Farewell, my dear friend; but only for a season. We are soon to
be separated, but we shall meet again. With kind remembrance to
all.--Your dying friend,
"LOUISA."
Miss Holmes had now another relapse, which destroyed all hope of her
recovery. Addressing her mother, who was communicating, in a low
voice, to Mr. Reed the opinion of the physician, she said, "You need
not whisper, I have long known that I should not recover; and now
_you_ know it, let us converse together as those who are on the eve
of parting."
"I have long feared it," said Mrs. Holmes, "though I have been
unable to express my fears."
"But why, my dear Mamma, should you fear it? Death has lost its
sting. The grave has lost its gloom. I am merely preceding you, and
preceding you under the most auspicious circumstances."
"Then has my dear Louisa no dread of death?"
"No. I have outlived that dread of dying which once bowed down my
spirits; and can smile on the king of terrors, who now appears
transformed into an angel of deliverance."
"But have you," said Mr. Reed, "no wish to live?"
"I had, Alfred, but now I have not. I once wished to live to share
your sorrows and your joys, and animate you in the discharge of your
sacred duties; but now I wish to depart and be with Christ, which is
far better."
On seeing her mother and sisters weep, she said, "I am not surprised
by your tears, because, if either of you were in my place, I should
weep. I know that nature must give vent to her feelings; but you
cannot expect _me_ to weep. Weep I cannot, unless I shed the tear of
grateful joy. No! My days of weeping are passed away; and soon my
days of suffering will be over."
Though her disease had been for some time making rapid progress
towards the fatal issue, her spirits were yet buoyant, and
occasionally she was as energetic and cheerful as in former days.
One evening, when the family were sitting with her, she talked with
a vivacity and fluency which induced them to hope that she might be
spared to them for some months, if not years longer. While indulging
these expectations, they were aroused from their reverie by the
sudden entrance of Emma, who brought her the following letter, from
her friend Mrs. Loader, which the postman had just delivered:--
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--The affectionate letter which I have just
received from dear Emma, brings the mournful intelligence
of your relapse, and that now all hope of your recovery has
vanished away. This intelligence, though mournful to others, is
not, I am thankful to hear, a cause of sorrow to yourself. You
are now on Pisgah, with the dreary wilderness behind you; and
the goodly land of promise in view, overshadowed by no darkening
cloud. My sympathies I reserve for others; to you, I offer my
congratulations. The contest is over; the victory is won, and
ere long you will receive the fadeless crown of immortality. In
a few weeks or days, you, who are now an inhabitant of earth,
will be a glorified spirit, beholding the face of the Holy One,
and uniting with the saints in heaven in the grand chorus of
adoration and praise. What you will then feel, on looking back
on the scene through which you are now passing; or how you will
give expression to your thoughts and emotions, is beyond all
power of conjecture; but it is sufficient to be assured that you
will be perfectly happy, and released from all earthly cares
and anxieties. Happy spirit!--happy, because redeemed;--happy,
because brought in safety to the end of your pilgrimage;--and
happy, now that the shadow of death is flitting across your
path--the visible sign of the coming of your Lord, to take you
to himself. Adieu, my much-loved friend, but not for ever; the
hope of a re-union sustains the dying and the living. We shall
weep when _you_ are rejoicing with the spirits of the just amid
the unfading glories of the celestial world.
"The Lord be with you. Again I say adieu, my much-loved friend;
but only for a season. My love and sympathy to all the dear
members of your family.--Ever yours,
E. LOADER."
Miss Holmes read this letter, shed a few tears, and then presented
it to Emma, saying, "When the crisis is over, acknowledge for me
receipt of it; and tell Mrs. Loader what pleasure it gave me."