Saint Paul might have so truly exemplified the position of earthly
misery as opposed to heavenly reward; but, _I_ am powerless to give the
deduction a personal application.
You tell me to look above, and have faith in the hope of rejoining her?
She is there, I know--that is, if there be a just God, a heaven, and
angels in paradise; but, how can I, sinner as I am and as I have been,
dream of climbing up to such a height?
It is an impossibility. I dare not hope for mercy and forgiveness.
Why, the very angels would scout me; and she, who was always glad of my
approach, would now draw aside the hem of her raiment lest I should
touch it and defile her!
Do you know, that, the acutest pang that thrills through my heart,
arises from the consciousness, that, while she was here, I was unworthy
of her--as I would be doubly so were I now able to take the wings of the
morning and reach the uttermost parts of heaven where she dwells.
Learn, O brothers! loving, like myself, hopelessly, unsuccessfully:--
learn by me, by my blighted life, my lost present, my vanished hopes of
heaven, that, the worst possible use to which you can put the divine
image in which you are clothed, is "to go to the devil" for a woman's
sake! Should she be deserving of your affection, as in most cases she
will probably be--ten times more than you are of hers--this is one of
the most inferior proofs that you can give of it; while, should she be
unworthy of it, as may happen, you are a dolt for your pains--to put the
motive of action at no higher level.
And O sister women, daughters of England, fair to look upon, tender-
hearted, ministering! think, that although no man that ever lived, but
one, is perfectly worthy of a pure woman's love, many an erring brother
may be recalled from his down-treading steps to hell, to higher, nobler
duties by your influence; as many a soul is damned, both here and
hereafter through your default!
Bear with me yet a little longer. I shall soon be done. It is a relief
to me thus to unbosom myself. Like Aenone--"while I speak of it, a
little while, my heart may wander from its deeper woe."
Min taught me to pray; and I _have_ prayed; but, the most fervent spirit
that ever breathed out its conscience to its Maker could never hope to
undo the past.
"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" It was
all very well for him who had faced Azrael, and looked upon himself as a
dying man, to speak thus!
Beautiful as is the sentiment contained in the words, are they _true_?
I know that a brave man, one who does not credit an eternity and has not
the slightest thought on the subject of future salvation or future
punishment, can, when quitting the only world of his knowledge, look
upon his approaching end with a courage and an apathetic calm which
resemble the smiling fortitude wherewith the ancient gladiators uttered
their parting salutations to Nero--when, in expectation, they waited for
the fatal thumb to be turned down, in token of their doom.
I can well believe that an earnest Christian, likewise, regards his
instant dissolution, with equanimity and, even joy--through
contemplation of the everlasting happiness in which he devoutly trusts.
Still, how do both, the irreligious man and the hopeful believer, bear
the loss of those dear to them--they themselves being left behind,
forsaken, to grieve over their vacant chairs, their despoiled folds?--
Has not Death his sting for them; the grave, its awful triumph?--
I do not always speak like this, however; nor are my thoughts ever
bitter and despairing.
"Fret not thyself," says the Psalmist, "lest thou be moved to do evil;"
and, I try not to fret when I remember the message my darling left for
me with Miss Pimpernell--who watched by her dying bed and told me what
she had said, in her very own dear, dear words. It is then that I haunt
the old scenes with which her presence will ever be associated in my
mind; and, weave over again the warp and woof of vanished days.
The trim market gardens dwindling down in the distance, thickly planted,
as of yore; the winding country lanes intersecting, which twist and turn
in every direction of the compass, and yet find their way down to the
silent river that hurries by their outlets; the old stone, buildings,
about whose origin we used to perplex ourselves--all remind me of her
and happiness!
The very scent of the hedgerows, a pot-pourri of honeysuckles and roses,
and of red, pink and white hawthorn, brings back to me her sayings when
we walked and talked together there--long, long ago, it seems, although
it was but yesterday.
And, in the Prebend's Walk memory is more and more busy still, as I pace
along its weary length solitary, alone--for, even my poor old dog had
died during my absence; and what were those idle, fair-weather
acquaintances, whom the world calls "friends," to me in my grief! I am
better without their company: it makes my mind unhealthy.--
So, I walk, alone with my heart and its grief!
The stately lime-trees bend as I pass them by; and, seem to sigh for her
who is gone, never to return. The ruined fosse, stagnant and moss-
covered, speaks of ruin and desolation. The crumbling walls that once
encircled the Prebend's residence, also reveal the slowly-sure power of
the destroyer's hand, more and more apparent each year that rolls over
them.
But, the church, Norman--turretted and oaken-chancelled, is fullest of
these bitter-sweet memories of my darling.
All its old-fashioned surroundings appear in keeping with my feelings:--
the carved galleries, the quaint, up-standing pulpit with its massive
sounding board, the monumental tablets on the walls, the open-raftered
roof; and, when, sitting in the high box-pew, where I first saw her, the
organ gives forth its tremulous swell--before some piercingly pitched
note from the _vox humana_ stop, cries out like a soul in agony like
mine--I can almost believe I see her again sitting opposite me, her
sweet madonna face bent down over her Bible, or upturned in adoration,
as I then noticed it!
I feel that her unseen presence is near me, watching me from the spirit
world above; or else, hovering by me, to guide my errant footsteps on
the pathway to heaven and lead my thoughts, through the recollection of
her faith and purity, and love, to things on high.
Would that I felt her presence always:--would that my thoughts, my
actions, my life, were such as she would have had them!
It was after I had gone to the old church for the first time--it was
weeks before I could have the resolution to go--that Miss Pimpernell
gave me my darling's message; touching with a tender touch on her last
moments here.
She told me she had never seen or heard of so peaceful an end as hers--
such fervent faith, such earnest reliance on her Saviour. She seemed to
have a presentiment from the first, of her death; and, when she was told
there was no hope of her recovery, she only grieved for those she left
behind; and for me and my disappointment, my old friend said, chief of
all.--
"I know he will be sorry,"--she said at the last.--"But, tell him that I
loved him and trusted him to the end. Tell him good-bye for me, and to
be good--not for my sake only, but, for God's!"
These were the last words she uttered.
She died, Miss Pimpernell said, with a soft sigh of contentment and a
smile of seraphic happiness on her face; and, the face of the dead
girl--she added sobbing--looked like the face of an angel in its purity
and innocence, and with the stamp of heaven on its lifeless clay.
She is buried in the churchyard where she and I so often mused and spoke
of those who had gone before--little thinking that _she_ would be so
soon taken, and _I_, left desolate to mourn her loss.
Her grave is a perfect little garden.
Loving eyes watch it, loving hands tend it. A little, green, velvet-
turfed mound is in the midst, planted round with all the flowers that
she loved--snowdrops and violets in the early part of the year, roses
and lilies in summer, little daisies always--for she used to say she
liked them because others generally despised them.
I go there twice a day, morning and night. Her mother knows of my
visits; but, we never meet, even there! She does not interfere with me;
and _I_ have buried the feud of the past in Min's grave. _There_ my
heart finds only room for love and grief, ebbing and flowing in unison;
coupled with a hope, which becomes more and more assured, now that I
have received her message, that we shall yet meet again in that promised
land where there is no death and no parting, only a sweet forgetfulness
of the ills of life, and a remembrance of all its joy--the happy land of
which my dream foretold in the early days of our love.
When I breathe the bloom of the flowers that rise from my darling's
resting-place in the early summer time, I almost experience peace! Her
sainted presence _must_ be watching over me, I am convinced; and, my
soul expands with a desire and a resolve, so to guard my life, that I
may hereafter obtain "the crown incorruptible" that now, I know, she's
wearing!
This is in summer.
But, in winter--winter which is connected by a thousand close and closer
associations with her, I cannot so be content!--
It was at Christmas tide that I first spoke to her:--Christmas when we
parted. On Christmas-eve we were to have met again:--it was Christmas
when she died--
--In winter?--
_Ay de mi_!