The light of her young life went out,
As sinks behind the hill
The glory of a setting star;
Clear, suddenly, and still.
--WHITTIER.
YOU ask me to tell you of her, the sweet friend we have loved and
lost. You impose on me a difficult task; I find it so harrowing to
my feelings, and I also find that my pen is inadequate to the
tribute my heart would pay.
I would that the privilege of knowing and loving her had been yours,
for to know her was to love her.
In former letters I told you something of her; how she came to us a
lovely bride of just nineteen summers; how anxiously we looked for
her first appearance in church, for they arrived late Saturday
evening, and no one had seen her. I told you how my heart went out
to her as I looked on her sweet, bright, yet somewhat timid face;
there was a perfect witchery in her eyes. I felt that I could gaze
into them for ever; there was about them a spell, a fascination that
I have never seen in others; they laughed as they looked at you, and
yet they were not merely laughing eyes; perhaps the long, drooping
lashes somewhat modified the expression, and helped to give the
peculiarity so strikingly their own.
Her dress and whole appearance were captivating; the simple light
straw hat, with the little illusion veil, and the pure white dress
fitting so prettily the slender form. I could hardly wait for the
next day, so anxious was I to see and speak with her, for I loved
her already.
I had been prepared to love her, for our young pastor had told us
much of his future bride. You know our house was one of his homes,
and to us he had spoken often and enthusiastically of his Mary. It
seemed to me that first Sabbath, that his prayers were particularly
impressive, and his thanks to the Author and Giver of every perfect
gift unusually appropriate; he seemed overpowered by a weight of
gratitude and love.
How I admired the two as I glanced from one to the other! And I know
that many prayers went up from that assembled congregation for long
life and blessings on them.
It was a beautiful home that had been prepared for her. Her
furniture had been sent on previous to their marriage, and our
little band had vied with each other in arranging with a view both
to taste and comfort. How we did wish for a peep into her own home,
to get a hint with regard to arranging her things, so as to be
_home-like_!
You know there is often so much in association, and we would have
loved the new strange place to have a familiar look to her at first
sight. Oh! what visions we conjured up as we arranged the room which
was to serve both as parlour and dining-room; for the house was
small, and Mr. B.'s study must be on the first floor. _There_ was
the best place for the piano between the windows, which looked into
the garden; we heard in anticipation the sweet voice which was to
fill the little room with melody, as the roses and flowers of June
now filled the garden with fragrance. The pretty fire-screen must
stand in a conspicuous corner, for that spoke particularly of home,
and of the hours delightfully passed in the dear family circle while
tracing it stitch by stitch; and I fancied that into each bright
flower which stood out so life-like from the canvas some emotion of
her heart had been indelibly wrought. How many lovely home
associations will the pretty fire-screen bring up!
How we arranged, and disarranged, and re-arranged, before all was to
our minds; and how we hoped, when all was finished, that it would
look as charming to her as it did to us! And we were not
disappointed; for, on the following Monday, when we called to see
her, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of her expression and
gratitude; everything was lovely, perfect; she saw all _en couleur
de rose_.
She had left indulgent parents, and a home of refinement and luxury,
and we feared for her the untried duties of her new position; but an
intimate acquaintance proved her eminently qualified for the
responsibility she had assumed. She adapted herself with charming
grace and readiness to her present circumstances. She was a most
delightful acquisition to our limited circle; a favourite with all;
and she blended so beautifully the graces of religion with those of
her natural temperament that she became our idol.
The "parsonage" seemed to me a paradise, surrounded by none but
bright and holy influences. There the poor always found a welcome, a
willing heart, a ready hand, and listening ear; however sad and
desponding on entering, they invariably came out cheerful and
hopeful. There seemed a magic spell cast around every one who sought
the presence of our dearly loved pastor and his wife.
With what pleasure I used to watch for their steps as they took
their morning walks together that bright first year of their married
life! They seemed to have the life and vivacity of children. She
always accompanied him in his walks, in his visits to the poor, in
relief to the sick, by the bedside of the dying; she was like his
shadow, and always haunted him for good. It might be said most
emphatically of both, "When the ear heard them it blessed them, and
when the eye saw them it gave witness to them, because they
delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had
none to help him; the blessing of him that was ready to perish came
upon them, and they caused the widow's heart to sing for joy."
Thus several years passed away; new cares and new duties devolved on
them; but all were cheerfully met and delightfully performed; and
they basked in the sunshine of God's love. Beautiful children sprang
up around them, and we felt that "earth never owned a happier nest"
than that which was placed in our midst.
How proud Mr. B. was of his family, and with what reason, too, for
we all felt it with him; his wife so beautiful, so good, so in all
respects fitted to make home happy, with her never-failing sunshine
and light-heartedness; his two little girls, our impersonation of
cherubs; and the youngest a noble boy, so dear to his mother's
heart. Oh! how many attractions within that charmed circle!
I shall never forget an evening I passed in the nursery with that
dear one surrounded by her happy little band. Willie, "the baby," as
she called him, although more than two years old, was sitting in her
lap, twirling one of her long, beautiful ringlets round his tiny
fingers.
"Sing, mamma!" he said.
"Oh, do!" joined in Effie and Minnie, putting their bright innocent
faces and soft brown curls close to hers; "sing The Dove, mamma,
please."
She laughingly asked me to excuse her, saying, she always devoted
the twilight hour to amusing and instructing the little ones. I
begged her to allow my presence to be no restraint upon her usual
custom. She then commenced, and I thought no seraph's voice could be
sweeter, as she sang one of Mary Howitt's beautiful translations:--
"There sitteth a dove so white and fair
All on the lily spray,
And she listeneth how to Jesus Christ
The little children pray;
Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,
And to Heaven's gate hath fled,
And to the Father in Heaven she bears
The prayers which the children have said.
And back she comes from Heaven's gate,
And brings, that dove so mild,
From the Father in Heaven, who hears her speak,
A blessing for every child.
The children lift up a pious prayer--
It hears whatever you say,
That heavenly dove, so white and fair,
All on the lily spray."
I joined heartily in the thanks and admiration the children
expressed when she had finished.
As she laid them in their little beds, and kissed their rosy lips
and dimpled cheeks, she said, "I can never thank God enough for
these sweet children." She then added, "Oh! what an affliction it
must be to lose a child; I think if one of mine should die, I should
die too; but," she added, "I should not say so; could I not trust
them with Him who doeth all things well?" She little realized how
soon she was to be put to the test. I called there a few days after.
She was in the garden raising and tying up some drooping carnations
which the rain of the preceding day had injured.
"Willie is not well," said she. "I have just sung him to sleep, and
Mr. B. said I must take a little fresh air, for I was fatigued with
holding him, and I thought I would confine myself to the garden, to
be near, if he should wake."
Soon a cry from the nursery was heard; she sprang up the steps in
nervous haste, while I quite chided her anxiety. I followed her into
the room, and was surprised and shocked to find the dear boy in a
high fever; his little arms tossing restlessly, and his lips dry and
parched. Mr. B. sent immediately for the physician; we waited
anxiously his arrival, hoping secretly that we were unnecessarily
alarmed; but his coming did not reassure us; he saw dangerous
symptoms; but still, he said, he hoped for the best. I went home, as
Mr. and Mrs. B. both declined my services for the night, saying they
would rather attend him alone. The next day I was pained to hear
that his symptoms were more unfavourable; that the medicine had had
no effect, and the physician was becoming discouraged. I flew over
to the "parsonage;" the wildly anxious look of the mother distressed
me. I begged her to lie down a little while, and allow me to take
her place by the baby.
"Oh, no," she said, "I cannot leave him; who but his mother should
be by his side?"
It seemed to me that I had never seen greater distress on any
countenance. Mr. B. endeavoured to soothe her, though his anguish
was apparently as keen as her own.
"If our Saviour would remove this little flower to his own garden,
shall we refuse to give it up? Shall we not rather bless and thank
him for allowing us to keep it so long?"
"Oh, yes!" she said, "He doeth all things well; I know that he does
not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men. I know that
whom He loveth he chasteneth, and I can say, 'Thy will be done.'
Nature is powerful, but my Saviour feels for me, and will forgive
the inward struggle."
All that night they watched his little life fast ebbing away.
Towards morning his sufferings seemed to cease; he smiled upon his
parents. Hope for a moment revived in their hearts, but soon to be
displaced by bitter anguish. Daylight showed the marked change in
his features and complexion that told too plainly the messenger was
very near.
"Speak to me, Willie," she exclaimed, bending over him in an agony
of grief.
"Mamma," he said, and, with the effort, his little spirit took its
flight.
Much has been said and written upon the death of infants, but when
we see so much of wickedness in the world, so much of sin to blight,
so much sorrow to fade, can we wonder that the Lord of Paradise
loves to transplant to a fairer clime these frail buds of earth,
there to have a beautiful and unfading development!
We saw no more of our precious friends till the day of the funeral.
This was their first affliction, and none liked to intrude on the
sanctity of their grief, though many tears were shed, and hearts
went out to them; but we felt that they knew whom they had trusted,
and that under the shadow of His wings they could rest securely till
the storm was past.
A neighbouring clergyman was to perform the last sad office for the
dead. Most lovely did little Willie look in his coffin. The
child-like, beautiful expression still lingered. Rare flowers, the
smallest and whitest, had been placed in the tiny hand, and shed
their fragrance throughout the room.
Oh! how sad and sick appeared the mother, as she bent to take the
last look at the little form she had loved and cherished so
tenderly! Her nights of anxiety and watching had left their traces
upon her face; her usually light and elastic step was feeble and
slow, and she rested heavily upon the arm of her husband. His form
also was bowed, and his countenance bore traces of the deepest
grief.
One of those sudden changes which we so often experience in this our
most changeful climate, took place that day. At noon it was very
warm and bright, but before we returned from the funeral it was
cloudy and cold.
The next day Mrs. B. was quite sick with severe cold, and the
effects of the past excitement and grief. We flattered ourselves
that rest and quiet, with good nursing, would soon restore her; and
you may judge of our dismay upon learning, the day after, that she
was dangerously ill.
"Oh no," we thought and said a hundred times, "it cannot be so; she
will surely be better to-morrow."
We could not have it otherwise. We could not for an instant admit
the idea that she would not recover. The bare supposition was agony.
Oh! how harrowing to me is the remembrance of those long summer
days, and those wakeful moonlight nights, in which, prostrated by
disease, lay that young and lovely being so idolized by us all, but
whom, indeed, we were destined to see no more on earth.
The Divine fiat had gone forth, and hearts were agonized, and looks
grew sadder and sadder, as day after day sounded like a knell in our
ears the fearful words, "Not materially better." But we could not
give her up; hope would linger. No one was permitted to see her but
the family and nurses, for the doctor said all excitement must be
carefully avoided. We said, "She will not die; God will raise her
up." In our weakness and blindness, we could see no mercy nor wisdom
in this terrible bereavement, this scorching desolation of the
already heavily-stricken servant of the Most High. He was naturally
of a most hopeful disposition, and this, notwithstanding the
discouraging words of the physician, buoyed up his soul, and he with
us hoped against hope. They could not persuade him to leave her for
a moment. Whole nights he watched by the side of her he loved best
on earth, anticipating every word and look, and administering to her
comfort.
How you would have felt for us, dear Anna, had you been here! We
would walk by the house, and look up at the windows or door, not
daring to knock for fear of disturbing her, but hoping to see one of
the physicians or some one of the family, of whom to make inquiries.
Oh, the nervousness of those days! the restless, weary nights we
passed, till our fears and apprehensions became a racking torment,
and we felt almost that we must die (sic) ourselves ourselves or be
out of suspense; but when, on the evening of the tenth day after her
illness, a messenger came with pallid face and almost wild look to
say that she was _dead_, we were stunned. I really think we were
almost as much shocked as though we had not heard of her illness;
for we felt that, at the eleventh hour, some favourable turn _must_
take place. I think we expected a miracle to be performed, so
certain were we, or wished and tried to be, that she would recover.
But God's ways are not as our ways; truly, they are past finding
out. We felt like putting our hands on our mouths, for fear of
rebelling against _His_ most righteous decrees. "Be still, and know
that I am God," was all that we could say. It was hard to realize
that the sun was still shining behind the cloud, for this was a
darkness that might be felt. There seemed a pall over the earth and
sky. Oh, how unsatisfactory seemed all on earth! how dark and
strange! how mysterious and unreal! We could not weep, we were
stunned, and it seemed at the time that we could never come back to
earth without her. But when the touching relation of her last hours
was made to us, the fountains of grief were unsealed, and we wept,
as it were, rivers of tears.
I can give you no idea on paper of the beauty and sublimity of that
death-scene as it was painted to me. We imagined that the heart must
shrink, or at least draw back before the entrance into the dark
valley. But all was peace; it flowed in upon her like a river, and
she felt that underneath were the everlasting arms. Her husband and
two remaining children stood by the bed. Oh, the bitterness of the
cup he was called upon to drink! He shrank from it. As he bent over
her, she said,
"Do not weep, love. How good God has been to give us so many bright,
happy years together! Surely the lines have fallen to us in pleasant
places, and I"--raising her beautiful eyes to heaven--"have a goodly
heritage. I go to my Saviour. How should I feel at this moment had I
not a hope in him? Oh, I am going home! I see Willie beckoning me to
hasten. I will bear him in my arms to the Saviour's feet, and
together we shall sing the 'new song.' I do not love you nor these
sweet darlings less; but I love the Saviour more. I wish you could
look in my heart and see the love I bear you. Thank you for all your
indulgence, for all your kindness in bearing with my many
infirmities. If I am permitted, I will be ever your guardian angel.
Remember me with much and undying love to all the dear friends who
have been so kind to me."
She appeared buoyed up with unnatural strength, though her end was
so near. She broke into a sweet hymn; and it was, they said, as
though the angel's voice had anticipated the few short moments
before she should sing the "new song." She lay quiet for a little
time, holding the hand of her husband in her own; then, opening her
eyes and seeing the last rays of the departing sun, "I shall never
look upon that bright orb again; but there is no need of the sun
there. I draw near to heavenly habitations, and I would not retreat
for what the world can give. Dearest, be faithful to your trust."
And, imprinting a kiss upon his lips, her pure spirit went
peacefully home.
We draw a veil upon the feelings of that bereaved one; too sacred
are they to be looked upon; his house was left unto him desolate.
That form, which had been to his eye like the well in the desert or
the bow in the sky, was now cold in death.
Oh! thought we, why needed this affliction to be sent upon one so
near _perfection_? Surely, _he_, of all others, needed not this
discipline; and then came to our minds, soft, sweet, and soothing,
the words, "Every branch in me that beareth fruit, he purgeth it
that it may bring forth more fruit."
We felt that it was hard to lay in the grave the form of our dear
friend; it was hard to part with the casket which had enshrined the
precious jewel. Beautiful in life, she was so in death. The
departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house,
and, in looking at the calm brow and peaceful smile, death seemed
divested of its terror. We had twined the pure white flowers she
loved around and amongst the rich dark masses of wavy hair, and she
looked like a beautiful bride more than a tenant for the grave. The
memory of that day will live ever in our minds. It was the last day
of summer, and there seemed a beautiful appropriateness in the
season; it seemed to us that the summer of our hearts had gone with
her.
A sad and mournful procession, we followed her remains to the church
so dear to her in life. It was but a few days since she entered it
in her loveliness and bloom, and for the last time on earth
commemorated a Saviour's dying love. She will partake with us here
no more. May we be counted worthy to sit down with her at our
Father's board in heaven! Mournful was the sight of the black pall
which covered the coffin; mournful the drapery which shrouded her
accustomed seat and enveloped the chancel; mournful the badges which
all, as by consent, had adopted as expressive of their feelings on
the occasion; but, oh! most mournful and heart-rending was the sight
of that husband and father leading by the hand on either side all
that remained to him of his beautiful family. It was difficult to
recognise in him the man of two short weeks before; twenty years
seemed added to his life; the eyes, usually beaming with light, now
cast down and swollen with weeping--the countenance, index of a
heart full of peace and joy, now so sorrow-stricken. Truly, he
seemed "smitten of God and afflicted." We turned our eyes away as he
stood by the grave which contained almost his earthly all.
It was a beautiful spot where they laid her to rest by the side of
her baby. The sun was just going down in a golden flood of light,
betokening a glorious morrow (beautiful emblem of the resurrection,
when this perishing body should be raised in glory), and the shadows
of the trees were lengthening on the grass. Every sound was in sweet
accordance with the scene; the soft twittering of the birds as they
sought their resting-places for the night, the quiet hum of the
insects, and the sweet murmuring of the brook which flowed at a
little distance.
A holy calm pervaded our minds as we wended our way between the
trees and down the slope which bounded this lovely spot; and, as we
left the gate, we involuntarily paused and looked back long and
earnestly on the sweet view. Every object was bathed in that golden
haze so peculiar to the last days of summer and the beginning of
autumn; but at this time it seemed to us that the flood of soft
light had escaped from the gate of heaven which we imagined had
opened to receive the form lost to our sight.
Oh, we miss her more and more, everywhere! in our walks and visits;
in the missionary circle, of which she was so ready and active a
member; in the Sunday school; in her accustomed seat in church; and
we miss the soft tones of her voice in prayer, and the rich
outpourings of her melody in praise.
The poor of the parish have, indeed, lost a friend, as their tears
and remembrance amply testify when they recount her kindnesses, her
gentle words, her deeds of charity and love. "Flowers grew under the
feet of her," said one wretchedly poor, yet, I thought, quite
poetical old woman, whose declining days she had lightened of much
of their weariness. A track of glory seems that which she has left
behind; and there was so much that was beautiful and consoling in
her last hours that it were selfishness to wish her back. She is
with the Saviour she loved; she folds again to her heart the little
one whose loss she had not time to realize on earth; together they
have entered on their "long age of bliss in heaven."
Does not that death-scene speak volumes in attestation of the
religion she professed, of the Saviour she adored? That young fair
being, surrounded by all that makes life happy; friends who loved, a
husband who idolized, children who clung to her; with a heart full
of love and sympathy for all, rejoicing with those who rejoiced, and
weeping with those who wept; of rare beauty and rarer accomplishments,
a sunbeam on the face of the earth; yet she willingly left all when
her Father called her. Is not her faith worth striving after?
We have reason (blessed be God!) to see already some good effects
from the contemplation of her life and death. The young have
received a warning, thoughtlessness a check. We have realized that
neither youth nor beauty is a security against the ravages of the
spoiler.
God grant that our dear pastor may experience the truth of the words
of the Psalmist: "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy." He
feels that his treasure is laid up in heaven, and we know that his
heart is there. To see his dear one happy had ever been his chief
desire, and he would not call her back, for he knows that she is now
in the enjoyment of a bliss that the world cannot give.
Though cast down, he is not destroyed; he has come unscathed from
this furnace of affliction because one like the Son of God was with
him. With eyes turned heavenward, he waits his appointed time. The
religion of the cross glistens like a gem on his dark-robed
fortunes, and points him to fairer worlds, where the love that grew
here amidst clouds will be made perfect in a light that knows no
shadow, where he and his departed ones will again have one home, one
altar, and one resting place.
Like his Divine Master, he goes about doing good. Oftener than ever
is he found amongst the sons and daughters of affliction; more than
ever are they objects of his special care; his precept is blessed by
his example, and thus many a prodigal son has he recalled from his
wanderings, many an outcast gathered into the fold, many a wayworn
pilgrim pointed to his true rest, many a mourner comforted. They saw
that the resignation he preached to others he practised himself;
they saw that the hand of the Lord was heavy upon him, but that yet
he turned not backward; they saw that he went his way as a pilgrim
pressing forward to a better country. Most brilliant will be the
diadem which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give him in the
last day, for are not these words of Holy Writ, "They who turn many
to righteousness shall shine like the stars for ever and ever?"