SAD NEWS.
It was a hot Saturday in August, when Henry Hamilton left school to go
home and spend the Sabbath with his mother. This he frequently did, as
it was but ten miles distant, and such a walk was only pastime to the
vigorous youth, now glowing with health and strength in every vein. On
this day however, the walk appeared unusually long to him; and he sat
down twice by the road-side to rest himself. This was very uncommon;
but he said nothing of fatigue when he reached home about sunset. He met
them with his usual cheerful smile, and had a laugh and pleasant words
for the children as they crowded round him. Of all Mrs. Hamilton's
children, Henry was the most sanguine and light-hearted, and when at
home, he was always the life of the family circle. He was sincerely
desirous of gaining a thorough education, and of doing credit to his
patrons and friends, and he hoped to be permitted to accomplish much
good in the world, when he had acquired his profession. There was much
enthusiasm in his character, and much of generous impulse; yet they were
modified by Christian principle. Henry was a sincere Christian. There
was little of noisy pretension, or loud profession; but in his soul was
a deep and abiding sense of obligation to God; a supreme desire to do
his will, and a fervent love to his fellow-men. To a remarkably fine
person, was added an intellect of uncommon quickness and discrimination,
and his teachers spoke in high commendation of his progress. We have
said he was the favorite son of his mother; and if a thrill of pride
passed through her heart as she gazed on his beaming face, if she
garnered up in her inmost soul many precious dreams of a brilliant
future, who can wonder? Who shall blame her?
It is now many years since "the dust fell on that sunny brow," but I
well remember Henry Hamilton--"handsome Henry Hamilton"--and seldom
indeed since have I seen a more striking form and face. There was a
frank, joyous expression beaming forth from his dark eyes, and his mouth
had always a sweet smile playing about it; there was a high intellectual
forehead, indicating thought, though it was half hidden by the sunny,
brown curls which clustered about it, and gave a youthful look to even
this portion of his face. His tall, well-developed figure was the
perfection of manly symmetry, and his musical laugh was ever ringing out
freely and unconsciously. His temperament was just the reverse of
Arthur's. Bold, courageous, self-relying, he hoped all things, and
feared nothing that man could do; by nature too, he was quick and
passionate, yet full of affection and all generous impulses. Such was
Henry Hamilton, now eighteen years of age--the pride of his family--the
favorite of all who knew him.
The night of his return home, he became violently ill, and no remedies
appeared to relieve his sufferings. I will not pain my young readers
with a recital of his agonies. They were most intense; and on the third
day after he was attacked, at six o'clock in the afternoon, he went from
an earthly to a heavenly home; from the bosom of his mother, to the
bosom of his God! There were few intervals of sufficient ease, to allow
of conversation. During these, he expressed entire confidence in the
Saviour, and perfect submission to the will of God, though death then
was most unexpected to him. He also expressed regret that he had done
so little for God, and besought a friend who stood by his bedside, to be
faithful to his Christian vows.
The last struggle was a fearful one; but his mother supported him in her
arms to the last; and to her his last look was given,--a look of sweet
affection, trust, and gratitude.
I stood beside his dead body an hour after the spirit had left it. I had
never before, and have never since, seen one so beautiful in death. The
last rays of the setting sun streamed softly in at an open window, and
one sweet ray fell upon his head. It was a bright halo,--a glorious
crown, for that sleeping dust to wear. The fair, wide brow, the rich,
dark curls, the softly-closed eyelids, the beautiful mouth, had never
been so lovely. All was life-like,--radiant. There was an expression of
heavenly joy I have never seen in a sleeper since. I had not seen him in
his mortal agony, and now it seemed impossible he could have ever
suffered. Can this be death, thought I?--Ah, there is a stillness too
deep for life! Those closed lips do not move; those eyes do not open;
there is no lingering breath, no beating heart! It is only dust. The
spirit _has_ fled! Beautiful sleeper! There shall be no waking of
thy precious dust till the resurrection morning!
Others came in, and I left the room, reluctantly, for it was pleasant to
me to be near one I had loved in life. I went into the sitting-room,
several neighbors were moving about, but the mother was not there. I
found her in the piazza; she was calm, but oh, who could fathom the
depths of her anguish? Who but He who formed the soul with all its
mysterious capacities for suffering?
The red light lay on the western hills, and they were very beautiful in
their summer greenness, stretching along the horizon in wavy outlines;
the summer sky above was beautiful, and so were the quiet fields, and
the ancient trees standing breathlessly silent in that glorious
twilight. Rays of heaven were blending with all that was loveliest on
earth; but though the mother's eye was fixed upon the scene, it was
evident she did not see it, nor feel its healing power. What wonder? The
agony was too recent,--the blighting of all her hopes too sudden for
resignation and peace to come into her soul at once. The heavy blow had
fallen, and her heart was crushed! No tear was in her eye, no trembling
in her voice, as she replied to questions; but a face more expressive of
utter woe I have seldom seen. What word of consolation could a mortal
speak at such an hour? "The heart knoweth its own bitterness," and a
stranger may not inter-meddle with its griefs. Let it be alone with God!
James was sent the next morning to bear the heavy tidings to Arthur, and
to bring him home to see the precious dust committed to its kindred
dust.
Arthur was stunned by the suddenness of the blow. He rode back with
James, scarcely speaking a word. He could not feel that Henry was
_dead_; it seemed like some fearful dream from which he must rouse
himself. But when he saw his mother, and felt himself pressed in
speechless agony to her heart, his tears burst forth in torrents.
Childhood can weep over its sorrows; it is only later griefs that refuse
the healing balm of tears.