M. Breugne, entering the room and seeing his younger patient stretched
on the sofa, went first to him: after a short examination, he said: "Il
a la fievre typhus, et, a en juger par la gravite des symptomes, il l'a
eu depuis huit a dix jours: il doit l'avoir gagnee de M. son frere aine,
que je n'ai pas encore vu."[75] I led him into the inner salon. He felt
the pulse of the elder son; his mother was standing by the bed-side: he
looked at what Kenelm had thrown from his stomach: the mother asked if
it was the bark; "Non, Madam, ce n'est pas cela;" and, with a look of
dreadful import, he led me out of the room, and, with a hurried under
voice, said, "C'en est fait de lui: sauvons l'autre: qu'il soit monte au
second; que ses soeurs ne mettent pas meme le pied sur l'escalier."[76]
All was now at once revealed. Breugne, overcome by the impetuosity of
his own feelings, did not give himself time to reflect with how little
preparation or management he made known to me the certain death of one
son, the uncertain fate of the other, and the danger of all the family.
I was stunned, but not surprised.
He prescribed for the two brothers; "With respect to the elder, we will
do our duty; but it is useless, and may torment him; he has not two days
to live; indeed I fear he will not pass the night: for the younger, I
can assure you of nothing; I have hope: I have followed, as physician,
the armies of Italy, and have attended, it may be, a thousand persons
under this disorder; I have lost but two or three, and then only through
some fault of the patient; but here, in the case of your younger son,
this fault exists,--he has been ten days without treatment, without
medical aid." He returned at five o'clock in the afternoon, and gave
more particular directions concerning him, confirming his opinion, that
Kenelm could not live over the night. Two hours later, the surgeon
called as usual, but proposed not to dress the blisters till next
morning. How we cling to the possession of a beloved object!
Notwithstanding what she had heard and what she saw before her, the
mother was alarmed, and cried out, "You think he will not live till
morning?" Not less grieved, but more resolute, I touched the sole of
Kenelm's foot, and said to the surgeon, "He is already cold here:" the
surgeon, touching the upper part of the foot, said, "There is warmth
here:" "Yes," said I, "the natural heat is retiring." The surgeon made
no reply. To calm the mother's fears, he seemed to dress the blisters;
and so the work of these medical men was ended.
Our director had called in the course of the morning: he pitied the
affliction of the family, and conversed with the excellent youth now
approaching to the close of a virtuous life. Kenelm wished to make a
general confession; the priest knowing this to be, in his case,
superfluous, and doubting if his mind or bodily strength were sufficient
to such a purpose, consoled him, and persuaded him to defer it. In the
evening he called again, and proposed to me the administration of the
sacrament of extreme unction; undertaking to prepare the cure of St.
Agricol, the parish-church. The viaticum was, of necessity, to be
omitted on account of the vomiting. Kenelm, though exhausted by this
discharge, yet on account of the movement which it occasioned, and from
painful and uneasy sensations, was unable to sleep: he called aloud
several times the name of his brother, recollecting perhaps that he had
not seen him during the day, adding, "He is playing alone in the field."
His three younger sisters had retired to their chambers, just before the
arrival of the priest with the holy oils.
I said to him, "You will be glad to see M. l'Abbe:" he assented. The
priest, addressing him, said, "You see this is the crucifix?" he
answered, changing his language immediately into that of the priest,
"Oui, Monsieur;" and devoutly kissed the sign of salvation. The
expression of his countenance, during the extreme unction, was that of
joy mingled with surprise; as of one delighted with the approach of
death, and understanding now, for the first time, that it was near. No
doubt was entertained but that he knew what was going forward, and, in
hope, set the seal to his faith. The priest and his attendant retired.
Kenelm's mother approached the bed: "Will you pray for me------" she had
not force to add, as she wished, "when you are in heaven?" He said,
"Yes, I will, if you will not cry: why do you cry?"--"To see you so
ill."--"That is the reason; yes, I am very ill:" he expressed a wish to
repose himself, but could not sleep; the fermentation of the gangrene
was consuming his bowels.
I sent for M. Breugne again at ten o'clock. "I am giving you an useless
trouble; but can any thing be done to relieve him?" Breugne looked at
him attentively, and turning away, said, "He has not two hours to live."
My eldest daughter, in a movement of grief and despair, cried out, "Sir,
you abandon him; you have not even felt his pulse." Breugne, in a
compassionate and placid manner, said, "If it will be a satisfaction to
you, Mademoiselle,--" and felt the wrist: "he has no pulse that can be
counted." I went up with Breugne into my younger son's chamber: "Il
dort; laissons-le; je viendrai demain de bonne heure."[77]
Notwithstanding Kenelm's satisfactory behaviour during the religious
ceremony of which he had been the subject, I wished for more positive
assurance that his reason was restored to him, and that he was aware of
his state: I wished, as far as I might, to comfort him, and prepare him
for his end. The task was most difficult: thirty days before, youth and
the expectation of a long life were his: a month had been passed in a
dream from which he was now awakened but to die. In his weak state, how
enter on such a topic? I endeavoured to lead to it. "Do you love me, my
dear son?"--"Yes, I love you; as I ought; you have great virtues."--"And
great faults."--"It is not for me to judge of that."--"Do you forgive me
the faults I may have committed in regard to you?"--"Assuredly I do." He
signified that he should be obliged to vomit, and I withdrew; nor could
I afterwards excite him to speak, though I frequently drew near the bed
for that purpose, and, at times, gently called him by his name.
His last words were words of charity, of pardon, and of peace. His
father and mother took one of his hands in theirs; it was cold, colder
than afterwards in death: he seemed unwilling to be thus disturbed; they
laid the hand down, and, with their eldest daughter, awaited the end in
painful and trembling anxiety: he appeared to suffer, but to be so
oppressed as to be unable to give expression to the sense of what he
suffered. The hour of midnight sounded: his last agony came on; and,
within ten minutes, he expired on Sunday morning, the thirtieth of
September, aged twenty years, four months, and twenty-five days.
The affliction of his parents and sister, who were fully sensible of the
value of what they had lost, needs not to be described. The exclamation
of Antoine Leturge, the domestic, the other witness of this scene of
woe, was simple and expressive: "Il est mort, lui, qui etoit si
bon!"[78] As they gazed on the awful object before them, the sister
said, "His eyes ought to be closed;" the mother, without due
recollection at the moment, made a sign to the servant: he, with right
feeling, gently said, "C'est au pere a faire cela:"[79] and the father
did it.
After attending to the due arrangement of the chamber, and of the
precious remains, I went up stairs: the doors of the chambers of my two
sons were close to each other; I was strangely struck by the sight of
the open door of the untenanted chamber, and stopt a moment to recover
force to enter into the other. I saw the flushed face of my only
surviving son through the gauze that surrounded the bed; I heard his
breathing, too full, but tranquil and equal. I withdrew, and took a few
hours troubled sleep on the couch on which both my sons had commenced
their dreadful malady.
In the morning, a table was placed, according to the usage of the
country, at the door of the court of the house, with paper and pens for
those who wished to signify their condolence with the family, to write
their names. The list of names was numerous: among them some one wrote,
"Tous les honnetes gens de la ville d'Avignon."[80] It was never known
who paid this tribute to the virtues of the deceased. I cannot forbear
to mention, that the man who had given him lessons in fencing, a hardy
soldier who had seen much military service, was so shocked by the news
of his death, that he fainted in the street, and was led home in a weak
state: this man was not advanced in years, but of the middle age, stout,
and of high spirit.
Before mid-day, the body in its coffin was taken to a room on the ground
floor: a shirt and sheet served, according to the custom of France, the
purpose of the woollen shroud: the head was raised on a pillow: the
hands were fixed, as we still see them on some ancient tombs, in the
posture of prayer: a small crucifix, the same which he had pressed to
his lips the evening before, was placed on the breast: wax tapers and
incense were burnt; the latter in more than ordinary quantity as a
preservative from infection. The lid of the coffin is not, at any time,
fastened in the south of France, not even at the time of interment: it
is then laid evenly upon it; till then it is placed obliquely, so that
the upper part of the body and the feet are seen. The face of the
deceased now bore no sign of suffering; the features were composed,
and seemed to indicate a tranquil state. Owing to the excessive cold
which, before death, had gradually spread itself over the body, the
muscles had become instantly rigid, and it had been impossible to close
completely the eyes and mouth: so that the separated eye-lashes, and a
fine set of teeth, white and regular, added to the illusion produced by
what seemed an expression of thoughtfulness. Death looked like sleep: it
required an effort of reflection to be convinced of the mournful
reality.
On the morning of the first of October, the clergy of the cathedral came
to the house to convey the body to the church: they were requested not
to begin their chant of the office for the dead, till at such a distance
as not to be heard by the surviving brother. The church was filled by a
crowd whom divine charity, or the best feelings of humanity, brought to
assist at the solemn rite, and to witness a scene which the early youth,
the well-known virtues, the afflicted state of the family of him who lay
before them, conspired to render interesting. High mass was celebrated:
the body was then carried to the cemetery to the north of the city, and
interred towards the middle of the wall enclosing the cemetery on the
north; the head resting near the wall, the feet turned towards Avignon.
Eighteen masses, without chant, were said for the repose of the soul of
the defunct. On Friday following, high mass was again sung, when,
according to custom, the friends of the family were invited to be
present: a great concourse again attended to join their prayers to the
powerful intercession of the spotless victim, and testify their sympathy
and compassion.
On a tablet of white marble, inserted in a sepulchral stone from the
quarries of Barbentanne, is inscribed, in the Latin language, his name,
his country, his religion, his age, and the date of the day and year of
his death. Henry Kenelm was tall, more than five feet ten inches in
height, strong and well-made, but not large-limbed; with light hair,
dark blue eyes, and dark eye-lashes, and a fair complexion. The
expression of his countenance was, like his mind, benevolent, frank,
cheerful, and intelligent. When we were at Florence, a year after his
death, a cast, from a statue in the public gallery, was sent to our
lodging as a model for drawing. All of us were struck by the resemblance
of this bust to him whom we regretted, whose features were still so
fresh in our recollection. Antoine was called; the bust was shown to
him; nothing was said: "It is like M. Kenelm," said he. My son took two
copies of this bust: the original is an _athleta_, as it is called,
bearing and looking down upon an urn: it is the third or fourth statue
from the entrance of the gallery on the left hand. We showed the bust to
a friend: "It is like the son whom we have lost."--"Your son was a very
fine young man." The face of the statue is certainly handsome: that of
Kenelm had more animation. His manners were those of good society,
wanting nothing but that ease and confidence which time and experience
would have given.
The friends who endeavoured to console me, employed, among other topics,
that of the danger of the world to youth. The argument proves too much.
A father is not reconciled, by the apprehension of a danger, uncertain,
and (in this case it may not be presumption to say) improbable, to the
loss of a son whom he has reared with careful and anxious thought, to
whose future life he looks forward with pleasing hope. The Greek proverb
indeed says, "He, whom God loves, dies young;" but we trust that many
who do not die young are beloved by God. More effectually did the
priest at Avignon console me: he knew, as confessor, the interior and
the conscience of Kenelm: "Je vous reponds de son salut; c'etoit un
fruit mur pour le ciel: Dieu l'a cueilli, et l'a mis dans son
grenier."[81] The Almighty Father of all, whose wise providence sends
afflictions, who knows when those whom he is pleased to call to himself
have well finished their course,--he can give assured comfort, and this
assured comfort he was graciously pleased to impart to the parents of
Henry Kenelm.
Mean time let me hope that this example of faith and piety, of filial
submission and fraternal love, of application to study, of patience,
mortification, chastity, will not be lost; that some will be reclaimed,
and many edified.
To my children especially, I recommend this memorial, written with tears
of mingled joy and grief: they have lost a brother, but they possess the
remembrance of his virtues, the knowledge of his felicity, the benefit
of his intercession. May they ever bear in mind that "every good, every
perfect gift cometh from above;" that to
"Him alone is glory," who "in crowning our merits crowneth his own
work."
[Greek: Doron toi kai ego, teknon phile, touto didomi.]
I will now relate an occurrence, on which I request the reader to
exercise his judgment temperately. He will readily believe that I have
not invented it: this is not an age in which credit is given to visions
or honor to visionaries.
In the night between the 30th and 31st of October, thirty entire days
after the death of Kenelm, his parents retired late to rest; in fact, at
one o'clock of the morning of the 31st. As they were composing
themselves to sleep, they heard a noise as of the breaking of a small
stick. To me this noise seemed to proceed from the cabinet or
dressing-room behind the bed; my wife heard it as from the commode or
drawers opposite the foot of the bed. We asked each other what the noise
might be, and compared what we had heard. Within a minute, my wife, who
had raised herself in her bed, asked me, "What light is that?" I saw no
light, and asked, "Where?"--"On the drawers, brighter than any candle."
She proceeded to describe what she saw: "Now it rises and grows larger.
How beautifully bright! brighter than the most brilliant star. What can
it mean? it is very strange you don't see it." I thought so too; but, to
encourage her, said, "Compose yourself; it can mean no harm." She went
on: "It still rises and grows larger: now it turns towards the
window--it takes the form of a dove with the wings spread but--it has a
bright glory all around it--it looks steadily at me--it speaks to my
heart, and tells me that my dear Henry is happy--it fixes a piercing
look on me, as if it would make me feel what it means. Now I know he is
happy, and shall lament no more for him. There--now it has disappeared."
Though I had not seen the light, I could see the face of my wife while
she was looking at it, and the tears glittering as if a bright light
passed through them while they fell down her cheeks. The French word
would be _ebrillantees_. There still remained a suffused light in the
room, particularly on the wall above the drawers, as of the reflection
of a nearly extinguished fire. This was observed by both of us. It
lasted about five minutes, growing gradually fainter, and at length
failing entirely. While looking at this suffused and darkish red light,
and reasoning with myself how or why the bright light had not been seen
by me, I remarked, on the floor, by the open door of the cabinet, the
reflection of a veilleuse, or small night-lamp. These lights are made
of a single thread of cotton half an inch long, steeped in melted wax,
and, when dry, inserted in little flat pieces of cork, which are
floated, while the cotton is burning, in a small quantity of oil. This
night-lamp was placed in the remotest corner of the dressing room, which
went the whole length of the bed-room. I saw its reflection on the floor
only, and only so far as the open door permitted it to be seen. "This"
said I, "cannot be the cause of the suffused light; still less can it
have been the cause of the bright one." While I was looking, first at
the suffused light, then at the reflection of the lamp, the former
disappeared; it was plain, therefore, that it had not been caused by the
latter.
In the morning we visited the tomb of our departed son, and returned
thanks to God. During the whole of the scene which I have described,
which lasted about half a quarter of an hour, my wife's behaviour was
sufficiently composed and recollected, was consistent and rational, free
from affectation or enthusiasm. A sudden and transient apparition of an
illuminated dove with a glory might be considered as the work of fancy;
but here this appearance was prepared for and followed by circumstances,
in which the imagination could have no part. The attention of her who
was to see the vision was directed, by the noise preceding it, to the
place where it first appeared; while I was roused by the same noise, but
heard by me in a different part of the chamber, as if I were to be, as
in the main I was, a witness only. I repeat, the suffused light was seen
by us _both_ for four or five minutes. Besides the form which the bright
light assumed to the eyes of my wife, the circumstance of its being seen
by one of the parties only, without weakening the force of her
testimony, is conclusive against its being either a natural or
artificial light; and her testimony, aided by mine, as to the
concomitant circumstances, proves it to have been a supernatural one.
The house looked into a court; there was no house opposite from which
lamp or candle could be seen; the moon, whatever witty people may be
inclined to say of the influence of the moon in this case, was but four
days old: besides, the window shutters were closed, and excluded all
lights, artificial or natural.
To use the words of a learned, rational, and respectable old man, the
cure of St. Agricol, to whom I related the matter, "Ce qu'on voit, on
voit." True,--what one sees, one sees; but the scripture, with that
intimate knowledge of human nature evident in its every page, speaks of
some who "will not be persuaded even though one rose from the dead."
The term of thirty days has been observed in the catholic church as that
at the end of which revelations have sometimes been made of the
happiness of departed souls.
I will now proceed in order with my narrative, but will first, to
conclude this subject, transcribe the affecting prayer for the dead in
the canon of the mass, which, not having found its way into "The Book of
Common Prayer," will be new to many of my readers:--
"Memento, Domine, famulorum famularumque tuarum N. et N. qui nos
praeecesserunt cum signo fidei, et dormiunt in somno pacis: ipsis,
Domine, et omnibus in Christo quiescentibus, locum refrigerii, lucis, et
pacis, ut indulgeas, deprecamur; per eundem Christum Dominum nostrum.
Amen."