the well-known door. The room was empty, but he heard a noise
overhead. When he entered the chamber, it was filled with a glow
from the west, and Justa was kneeling by the bed of his father,
who was sitting half upright, and looking, with a stiff, haggard
countenance, toward the setting sun before him. One exclamation,
and a clasp of her lover to her breast, was all his reception.
His father stretched out his withered hand slowly, and said, with
difficulty, “Thou art come at the right time”; but without adding
whether he spoke of the preachings, or alluded to their approaching
separation. Justa hastily related how the old man had overworked
himself, till body and spirit had given way together, so that he
no longer took a share in anything, though he longed to be with
the sharers; and how he lay prostrate, with broken wings, looking
upward, like a helpless child. The old man had grown so hard of
hearing, that she could say all this in his presence.
Gottreich would fain have infused into that old and once strong
heart the fire of victory which was reflected in his own bosom; but
he heard neither wish nor question of it. The old man continued to
gaze steadily upon the setting sun, and at last it was hidden by
the storm-clouds. The landscape grew dark, the winds stood pent,
and the earth was oppressed. Suddenly there came a gush of rain
and a crash of thunder. The lightning flashed around the old man.
He looked up, altered and astonished. “Hist!” he said; “I hear the
rain once more. Speak quickly, children, for I shall soon depart!”
Both his children clung to him, but he was too weak to embrace them.
And now warm, refreshing fountains from the clouds bathed all
the sick earth, from the dripping trees to the blades of grass.
The sky glistened mildly, as with tears of joy, and the thunder
went rumbling away behind the distant mountains. The sick man
pointed upward, and said: “Seest thou the majesty of God? My son,
now, in my last hour, strengthen my weary soul with something
holy,--something in the spirit of love, and not of penance; for if
our hearts condemn us not, then have we confidence toward God. Say
something to me rich in love of God and of his works.”
The eyes of the son overflowed, to think that he should read at the
death-bed of his father those Reminiscences which he had prepared
for his own. He said this to him, but the old man answered,
“Hasten, my son!” And, with faltering voice, Gottreich began to
read:--
“Remember, in thy dark hour, those times when thou hast prayed to
God in ecstasy, and when thou hast thought on him, the Infinite
One; the greatest thought of finite man.”
Here the old man clasped his hands, and prayed low.
“Hast thou not known and felt the existence of that Being, whose
infinity consists not only in his power, his wisdom, and his
eternity, but also in his love, and in his justice? Canst thou
forget the time when the blue sky, by day and by night, opened on
thee, as if the mildness of God was looking down on thee? Hast thou
not felt the love of the Infinite, when he veiled himself in his
image, the loving hearts of men; as the sun, which reflects its
light not on the moon only, but on the morning and evening star
also, and on every little twinkler, even the farthest from our
earth?
“Canst thou forget, in the dark hour, that there have been mighty
men among us, and that thou art following after them? Raise
thyself, like the spirits who stood upon their mountains, having
the storms of life only about them, never above them! Call back to
thee the kingly race of sages and poets, who have inspirited and
enlightened nation after nation!”
“Speak to me of our Redeemer,” said the father.
“Remember Jesus Christ, in the dark hour. Remember him, who also
passed through this life. Remember that soft moon of the Infinite
Sun, given to enlighten the night of the world. Let life be
hallowed to thee, and death also; for he shared both of them with
thee. May his calm and lofty form look down on thee in the last
darkness, and show thee his Father.”
A low roll of thunder was heard from clouds which the storm had
left. Gottreich continued to read:--
“Remember, in the last hour, how the heart of man can love. Canst
thou forget the love wherewith one heart repays a thousand hearts,
and the soul during a whole life is nourished and vivified from
another soul? Even as the oak of a hundred years clings fast to
the same spot, with its roots, and derives new strength, and sends
forth new buds during its hundred springs?”
“Dost thou mean me?” said the father.
“I mean my mother also,” replied the son.
The father, thinking on his wife, murmured very gently, “To meet
again. To meet again.” And Justa wept while she heard how her lover
would console himself in his last hours with the reminiscence of
the days of _her_ love.
Gottreich continued to read: “Remember, in the last hour, that pure
being with whom thy life was beautiful and great; with whom thou
hast wept tears of joy; with whom thou hast prayed to God, and in
whom God appeared unto thee; in whom thou didst find the first and
last heart of love;--and then close thine eyes in peace!”
Suddenly, the clouds were cleft into two huge black mountains;
and the sun looked forth from between them, as it were, out of a
valley between buttresses of rock, gazing upon the earth with its
joy-glistening eye.
“See!” said the dying man. “What a glow!”
“It is the evening sun, father.”
“This day we shall see one another again,” murmured the old man. He
was thinking of his wife, long since dead.
The son was too deeply moved to speak to his father of the
blessedness of meeting again in this world, which he had enjoyed by
anticipation during his journey. Who could have courage to speak of
the joys of an earthly meeting to one whose mind was absorbed in
the contemplation of a meeting in heaven?
Gottreich, suddenly startled, asked, “Father, what ails thee?”
“I do think thereon; and death is beautiful, and the parting
in Christ,” murmured the old man. He tried to take the hand of
Gottreich, which he had not strength to press. He repeated, more
and more distinctly and emphatically, “O thou blessed God!” until
all the other luminaries of life were extinguished, and in his soul
there stood but the one sun, God!
At length he roused himself, and, stretching forth his arm, said
earnestly, “There! there are three fair rainbows over the evening
sun! I must go after the sun, and pass through them with him.” He
sank backward, and was gone.
At that moment the sun went down, and a broad rainbow glimmered in
the east.
“He is gone,” said Gottreich, in a voice choked with grief. “But he
has gone from us unto his God, in the midst of great, pious, and
unmingled joy. Then weep no more, Justa.”
* * * * *
His youth was innocent; his riper age
Marked with some act of goodness every day;
And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage,
Faded his late declining years away.
Cheerful he gave his being up, and went
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.
That life was happy. Every day he gave
Thanks for the fair existence that was his;
For a sick fancy made him not her slave,
To mock him with her phantom miseries.
No chronic tortures racked his aged limbs,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.
Why weep ye, then, for him, who, having won
The bound of man’s appointed years, at last,
Life’s blessings all enjoyed, life’s labors done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed,--
While the soft memory of his virtues yet
Lingers, like twilight hues when the bright sun is set?
W. C. BRYANT.
[Illustration]
REST AT EVENING.
BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
When the weariness of life is ended,
And the task of our long day is done,
And the props, on which our hearts depended,
All have failed, or broken, one by one;
Evening and our sorrow’s shadow blended,
Telling us that peace has now begun.
How far back will seem the sun’s first dawning,
And those early mists so cold and gray!
Half forgotten even the toil of morning,
And the heat and burden of the day.
Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,
All alike, withered and cast away.
Vain will seem the impatient heart, that waited
Toils that gathered but too quickly round;
And the childish joy, so soon elated
At the path we thought none else had found;
And the foolish ardor, soon abated
By the storm which cast us to the ground.
Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming
As our final home and resting-place;
And the leaving them, while tears were streaming
Of eternal sorrow down our face;
And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming
That no future could their touch efface.
All will then be faded: Night will borrow
Stars of light to crown our perfect rest;
And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow
Just remain to show us all was best;
Then melt into a divine to-morrow:
O, how poor a day to be so blest!
[Illustration]
Transcriber’s Notes
Italics are enclosed in _underscores_.
Hyphenation and spelling inconsistencies were not remedied, as this
book contains the works of many authors.
Punctuation and quotation marks were used inconsistently and often
poorly printed. Transcribers attempted to correct the poorly
printed ones and obvious unbalanced quotation marks.
Some attributions were italicized, while others were in small-caps.
Both styles retained here.
Text tapered in a “V” shape at the end of a chapter usually was
followed by a decorative illustration, but on pages 67 and 97
of the original book, there was insufficient room for them. For
consistency, Transcriber has added decorative illustrations on
those two pages, by duplicating an existing one from another page.
The illustration above the first story, “THE FRIENDS,” depicts an
eldery woman comparing the heights of two children.
The illustration at the very end of the book depicts an eldery
couple at a small table.
All of the other illustrations are decorative headpieces and
tailpieces.
The first letter of each story was shown in decorative form.
Page 284: “in a dream three several times” was printed that way.