THE LAST BIRTH-DAY.
Mere human power shall fast decay,
And youthful vigour cease;
But they who wait upon the Lord,
In strength shall still increase.
Frank felt no unnatural apathy or indifference about dying, for he
looked upon it with awe, though not with fear; nor did he express any
rapturous excitement on the solemn occasion, knowing that death is an
appointed penalty for transgression, which, though deprived of its
sharpest sting by the triumphs of the cross, yet awfully testifies to
all succeeding generations, that each living man has individually
merited the utmost wrath of God, and that the last moment on earth, of
even the most devoted Christian, must be darkened by the gloom of our
original sin and natural corruption. Yet, "as in Adam all die, so in
Christ are all made alive;" and amidst the throng of consolatory and
affecting meditations that crowded into his mind on the great subject of
our salvation, he kept a little book in which were carefully recorded
such texts and reflections as he considered likely to strengthen his own
faith, and to comfort those he left behind--saying one day to Major
Graham,
"Tell grandmama, that though my days have been few upon the earth, they
were happy! When you think of me, uncle David, after my sufferings are
over, it may well be a pleasing remembrance, that you were always the
best, the kindest of friends. Oh! how kind! but I must not--cannot speak
of that----. This is my birth-day!--my last birth-day! Many a joyous one
we kept together, but those merry days are over, and these sadder ones
too shall cease; yet the time is fast approaching, so welcome to us
both,
'When death-divided friends at last
Shall meet to part no more.'"
In the evening, Major Graham observed that Frank made Mrs. Crabtree
bring everything belonging to him, and lay it on the table, when he
employed himself busily in tying up a number of little parcels,
remarking, with a languid smile,
"My possessions are not valuable, but these are for some old friends and
messmates, who will be pleased to receive a trifling memorial of one who
loved them. Send my dirk to Peter Grey, who is much reformed now. Here
are all the letters any of you ever sent me; how very often they have
been read! but now, even that intercourse must end; keep them, for they
were the dearest treasures I possessed. At Madras, formerly, I remember
hearing of a nabob who was bringing his whole fortune home in a chest of
gold, but the ropes for hoisting his treasure on board were so
insufficient, that the whole gave way, and it fell into the ocean, never
to be recovered. That seemed a very sudden termination of his hopes and
plans, but scarcely more unexpected than my own. 'We are a wind that
passeth away and cometh not again.' Many restless nights are ordained
for me now, probably that I may find no resource but prayer and
meditation. Others can afford time to slumber, but I so soon shall sleep
the sleep of death, that it becomes a blessing to have such hours of
solitary thought, for preparing my heart and establishing my faith,
during this moment of need."
"Yes, Frank! but your prayers are not solitary, for ours are joined to
yours," added Laura. "I read in an old author lately, that Christian
friends in this world might be compared to travellers going along the
same road in separate carriages--sometimes they are together--often they
are apart--sometimes they can exchange assistance, as we do now--and
often they jostle against each other, till at last, having reached the
journey's end, they are removed out of these earthly vehicles into a
better state, where they shall look back upon former circumstances, and
know even as they are known."
Laura was often astonished to observe the change which had taken place
in her own character and feelings within the very short period of their
distress. Her extreme terror of a thunder-storm formerly, had occasioned
many a jest to her brothers, when Harry used, occasionally, to roll
heavy weights in the room above her own, to imitate the loudest peals,
while Frank sometimes endeavoured to argue her out of that excessive
apprehension with which she listened to the most distant surmise of a
storm. Now, however, at Hammersmith, long after midnight, the moon, on
one occasion, became completely obscured by dense heavy clouds, and the
air felt so oppressively hot, that Frank, who seemed unusually
breathless, drew closer to the window. Laura supported his head, and was
deeply occupied in talking to him, when suddenly a broad flash of
lightning glared into the room, followed by a crash of thunder, that
seemed to crack the very heavens. Again and again the lightning gleamed
in her face with such vividness, that Laura fancied she could
distinguish the heat of it, and yet she stirred not, nor did a single
exclamation, as in former days, arise on her lips.
"Pray shut the window, Laura," said Frank languidly, raising his eyes;
"and be so kind as to close the shutters!"
"Why, Frank?--you never used to be alarmed by thunder!"
"No! nor am I now, dear Laura. What danger need a dying person fear?
Some few hours sooner or later would be of little consequence--
Come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death that comes at last.
Yet, Laura, do you think I have forgotten old times! Oh, no!--not while
I live. You attend to my feelings, and surely it is my duty to remember
yours."
"Never mind me, Frank!" whispered Laura. "I have got over all that
folly. When real fears and sorrows come, we care no more about those
that were imaginary."
"True, my dear sister; and there is no courage or fortitude like that
derived from faith in a superintending providence. Though all creation
reel, we may sleep in peace, for to Christians 'danger is safe, and
tumult calm.'"
When Frank grew worse, he became often delirious. Yet as in health he
had been habitually cheerful, his mind generally wandered to agreeable
subjects. He fancied himself walking on the bright meadows, and picking
flowers by the river side,--meeting Lady Harriet,--and even speaking to
his father, as if Sir Edward had been present; while Harry and Laura
listened, weeping and trembling, to behold the wreck of such a mind and
heart as his. One evening, he seemed unusually well, and requested that
his arm-chair might be wheeled to the open window, where he gazed with
delight at the hills and meadows,--the clouds and glittering water,--the
cattle standing in the stream,--the boats reflected on its surface,--and
the roses fluttering at every casement.
"Those joyous little birds!--their song makes me cheerful," said he, in
a tone of placid enjoyment. "I have been in countries where the birds
never sing, and the leaves never fade; but they excited no sympathy or
interest. Here we have notes of gladness both in sunshine and storm,
teaching us a lesson of grateful contentment,--while those drooping
roses preach a sermon to me, for as easily might they recover freshness
and bloom as myself. We shall both lie low before long in the dust, yet
a spring shall come hereafter to revive even 'the ashes of the urn.'
Then, uncle David, we meet again,--not as now, amidst sorrow and
suffering, with death and separation before us,--but blessed by the
consciousness that our sins are forgiven,--our trials all ended,--and
that our afflictions which were but for a moment, have worked out for us
a far more exceeding, even an eternal weight of glory."
Some hours afterwards the Doctor entered. After receiving a cordial
welcome from Frank, and feeling his pulse, he instantly examined his
arms and neck, which were covered entirely over with small red spots,
upon observing which, the friendly physician suddenly changed
countenance, and stole an alarmed glance at Major Graham.
"I feel easier and better to-day, Doctor, than at any time since my
illness," said Frank, looking earnestly in his face. "Do you think this
eruption will do me good? Life has much that would be dear to me, while
I have friends like these to live for. Can it be possible that I may yet
recover?"
The Doctor turned away, unable to reply, while Frank intensely watched
his countenance, and then gazed at the pale agitated face of Major
Graham. Gradually the hope which had brightened in his cheek began to
fade,--the lustre of his eye became dim,--his countenance settled into
an expression of mournful resignation,--and covering his face with his
hands, he said, in a voice of deep emotion,
"I see how it is!--God's will be done!"
The silence of death succeeded, while Frank laid his head on the pillow
and closed his eyes. A few natural tears coursed each other slowly down
his cheek; but at length, an hour or two afterwards, being completely
exhausted, he fell into a gentle sleep, from which the Doctor considered
it very doubtful if he would ever awaken, as the red spots indicated
mortification, which must inevitably terminate his life before next day.
Laura retired to the window, making a strenuous effort to restrain her
feelings, that she might be enabled to witness the last awful scene; and
fervently did she pray for such strength to sustain it with fortitude,
as might still render her of some use to her dying brother. Her pale
countenance might almost have been mistaken for that of a corpse, but
for the expression of living agony in her eye; and she was sunk in deep,
solemn thought, when her attention became suddenly roused by observing a
chariot and four drive furiously up to the gate, while the horses were
foaming and panting as they stopped. A tall gentleman, of exceedingly
striking appearance, sprung hurriedly out, walked rapidly towards the
cottage door, and in another minute entered Frank's room, with the
animated look of one who expected to be gladly welcomed, and to occasion
an agreeable surprise.
Harry and Laura shrunk close to their uncle, when the stranger, now in
evident agitation, gazed round the room with an air of painful
astonishment, till Major Graham looked round, and instantly started up
with an exclamation of amazement, "Edward! is it possible! This is
indeed a consolation! you are still in time!"
"In time!!" exclaimed Sir Edward, grasping his brother's hand with
vehement agitation. "Do you mean to say that Frank is yet in danger!"
Major Graham mournfully shook his head, and undrawing the bed curtains,
he silently pointed to the sleeping countenance of Frank, which was as
still as death, and already overspread by a ghastly paleness. Sir Edward
then sunk into a chair, and clenched his hands over his forehead with a
look of unspeakable anguish, saying, in an under-tone, "Worn out, as I
am, in mind and body, I needed not this to destroy me! Say at once,
brother, is there any hope?"
"None, my dear Edward! None! Even now he is insensible, and I fear with
little prospect of ever becoming conscious again."
At this moment Frank opened his eyes, which were dim and glassy, while
it became evident that he had relapsed into a state of temporary
delirium.
"Get more candles! how very dark it is!" he said. "Who are all those
people? Send away everybody but grandmama! I must speak to her alone.
Never tell papa of all this, it would only distress him--say nothing
about me. Why do Harry and Laura never come? They have been absent more
than a week! Who took away uncle David too?"
Laura listened for some time in an agony of grief, till at last, unable
any longer to restrain her feelings, she clasped Frank in her arms and
burst into tears, exclaiming, in accents of piercing distress, "Oh
Frank! dear Frank! have you forgotten poor Laura?"
"Not till I am dead!" whispered he, while a momentary gleam of
recollection lighted up his face. "Laura! we meet again."
Sir Edward now wished to speak, but Frank had relapsed into a state of
feeble unconsciousness, from which nothing could arouse him; once or
twice he repeated the name of Laura in a low melancholy voice, till it
became totally inaudible--his breath became shorter--his lips became
livid--his whole frame seemed convulsed--and some hours afterwards, all
that was mortal of Frank Graham ceased to exist. About four in the
morning his body was at rest, and his spirit returned to God who gave
it.
The candles had burned low in their sockets, and still the mourners
remained, unwilling to move from the awful scene of their bereavement.
Mrs. Crabtree at length, who laid out the body herself, extinguished the
lights, and flung open the window curtains. Then suddenly a bright blaze
of sunshine streamed into the room, and rested on the cold pale face of
the dead. To the stunned and bewildered senses of Harry and Laura, the
brilliant dawn of morning seemed like a mockery of their distress. Many
persons were already passing by--the busy stir of life had begun, and a
boy strolling along the road whistled his merry tune as he went gaily
on.
"We are indeed mere atoms in the world!" thought Laura bitterly, while
these sights and sounds fell heavily on her heart. "If Harry and I had
both been dead also, the sun would have shone as brightly, the birds
sung as joyfully, and those people been all as gay and happy as ever!
Nobody is thinking of Frank--nobody knows our misery--the world is going
on as if nothing had happened, and we are breaking our hearts with
grief!"
Laura's heart became stilled as she gazed on the peaceful and almost
happy expression of those beautiful features, which had now lost all
appearance of suffering. The eyes, from which nothing but kindness and
love had beamed upon her, were now closed for ever; the lips which had
spoken only words of generous affection and pious hope, were silent; and
the heart which had beat with every warm and brotherly feeling, was for
the first time insensible to her sorrows; yet Laura did not give way to
the strong excess of her grief, for it sunk upon her spirit with a
leaden weight of anguish, which tears and lamentations could not
express, and could not even relieve. She rose and kissed, for the last
time, that beloved countenance, which she was never to look upon again
till they met in heaven, and stole away to the silence and solitude of
her own room, where Laura tried in vain to collect her thoughts. All
seemed a dreary blank. She did not sigh--she could not weep; but she sat
in dark and vacant abstraction, with one only consciousness filling her
mind--the bitter remembrance that Frank was dead--that she could be of
no farther use to him--that she could have no future intercourse with
him--that even in her prayers she could no longer have the comfort of
naming him; and when at last she turned to his own Bible which he had
given her, to seek for consolation, her eyes refused their office, and
the pages became blistered with tears.
After Frank's funeral, Sir Edward became too ill to leave his bed; and
Major Graham remained with him in constant conversation; while Harry and
Laura did every thing to testify their affection, and to fill the place
now so sadly vacant.
On the following Sunday, several of the congregation at Hammersmith
observed two young strangers in the rector's pew, dressed in the deepest
mourning, with pale and downcast countenances, who glided early into
church, and sat immoveably still, side by side, while Mr. Palmer gave
out for his text the affecting and appropriate words which Frank himself
had often repeated during his last illness, "In an hour that ye think
not, the Son of man cometh."
Not a tear was shed by either Harry or Laura,--their grief was too great
for utterance; yet they listened with breathless interest to the sermon,
intended not only to console them, but also to instruct other young
persons, from the afflicting event of Frank's death.
Mr. Palmer took this opportunity to describe all the amiable
dispositions of youth, and to show how much of what is pleasing may
appear before religion has yet taken entire possession of the mind; but
he painted in glowing colours the beautiful consistency and harmony of
character which must ensue after that happy change, when the Holy Spirit
renews the heart and influences the life. It almost seemed to Harry and
Laura as if Frank were visibly before their eyes, when Mr. Palmer spoke
in eloquent terms of that humility which no praise could diminish--that
benevolence which attended to the feelings, as well as the wants of
others,--that affection which was ever ready to make any sacrifice for
those he loved,--that docility which obeyed the call of duty on every
occasion,--that meekness in the midst of provocation which could not be
irritated,--that gentle firmness in maintaining the truths of the
gospel, which no opposition could intimidate,--that cheerful submission
to suffering which saw a hand of mercy in the darkest hour,--and that
faith which was ever "forgetting those things which are behind, and
reaching forth unto those things which are before,--pressing toward the
mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."
It seemed as if years had passed over the heads of Harry and Laura
during the short period of their absence from home--that home where
Frank had so anxiously desired to go! All was changed within and around
them,--sorrow had filled their hearts, and no longer merry, thoughtless
creatures, believing the world one scene of frolicsome enjoyment and
careless ease; they had now witnessed its realities,--they had felt its
trials,--they had experienced the importance of religion,--they had
learned the frailty of all earthly joy,--and they had received, amidst
tears and sorrows, the last injunction of a dying brother, to "call upon
the Lord while He is near, and to seek Him while he may yet be found."
"Uncle David," said Laura one day, several months after their return
home, "Mrs. Crabtree first endeavoured to lead us aright by
severity,--you and grandmama then tried what kindness could do, but
nothing was effectual till now, when God Himself has laid His hand upon
us. Oh! what a heavy stroke was necessary to bring me to my right mind,
but now, while we weep many bitter tears, Harry and I often pray
together that good may come out of evil, and that 'we who mourn so
deeply, may find our best, our only comfort from above'."
Unthinking, idle, wild, and young,
I laugh'd, and talk'd, and danc'd, and sung;
And proud of health, of frolic vain,
Dream'd not of sorrow, care, or pain,
Concluding in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.
But when the days of trial came,
When sorrow shook this trembling frame,
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could dance or sing no more;
It then occurr'd how sad 'twould be
Were this world only made for me.
Princess Amelia.
THE END.
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| |
| Transcriber's note: |
| |
| Archaic spelling has been retained, along with inconsistent |
| hyphenation: cheese-cakes/cheesecakes, good-bye/good bye, |
| mile-stone/milestone, over-head/overhead, |
| play-things/playthings, rail-road/railroad, |
| steam-boats/steamboats, tea-pot/teapot. |
| |
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