… “Britain,
Well named Great! Mistress of the seas, arb’tress
Of the earth; dread of the oppressor, refuge
Of th’ oppressed; bulwark of liberty, hav’n
Of hope, standard of justice.”——
“The forms of thy sons, in sculptured story,
Shall to distant times appear, triumph’s wreaths
Their brows entwining.”——
Our party completed their journey to town late the day before the
internment was to take place. Arrangements previously made by Lord
Arandale, had secured for them places in the cathedral. The pomps
attendant on the funerals of officers of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s rank, being
too well known to require description, we shall only slightly remark the
impressions made on the mind of our heroine, who, for Edmund’s sake, was
more than commonly interested in the solemn scene.
The procession having entered, the service commenced; the effect of the
sublime parts of which, on the feelings of Julia, were such, together
with the all-pervading grandeur of the music; the slow, but constant
movement of the passing figures; and the still solemnity of all things
else, that, yielding to the one absorbing sense of admiring awe, she
seemed wrapped in a species of trance, while, from time to time, a single
voice in the choir, separating itself from among the body of sound, would
reach her ear, pronouncing, with peculiar distinctness, some impressive
sentence.
Pious enthusiasm stole over her heart, as, with thrilling sweetness, a
youthful voice sang, “And now, Lord, what is my hope? truly my hope is
even in thee!” Again, when the voice proclaimed, “Man walketh in a vain
shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain!” how contemptible seemed the
struggles of worldly ambition for the precedence of an hour! And now the
voice pronounced, “In the midst of life, we are in death!” And poor Julia
thought of Edmund, and of the dangers of the sea; and her heart died
within her. It so happened that the countenances most immediately in the
view of our heroine, were those of a number of the oldest naval officers,
who were of course, in general, the oldest men, as the grey hair, thinly
scattered on the brow of many told.
At the moment Julia first remarked this, voices in the choir were singing
the verse, “Though men be so strong that they come to fourscore years,
yet is their strength but labour and sorrow, so soon passeth it away,
and we are gone.” No eye wandered, no limb was restless, while the
very stillness of each motionless figure possessed expression. It was
not repose; it was not listlessness; it was the fixedness of serious
attention.
Many of the countenances bore the traces, not of age only, but also of
hardships. Hardships endured. Wherefore? To render home a sanctuary! A
sanctuary to infirmity, to infancy, to those of her own sex, to all, in
short, who were unable to defend themselves! Julia’s enthusiasm arose:
How beautifying, she thought, is every furrow so produced.
She pictured to herself each individual now so quiescent in form; so
still in feature; on the deck of his floating citadel, surmounting a
tempest, or conquering an enemy.
Midnight, winter, every adventitious circumstance, crowded on her
poetic imagining, of what though she had never seen, yet she had so
often studied in description, that, of all subjects, it was the one
most familiar to her fancy. Ship after ship arose before her mind’s
eye; till, gradually, they formed themselves into an invincible bulwark
around our happy isles, establishing them the throne of peace; while wild
warfare desolated the outer world! “Yes,” thought Julia, “even our foes
find refuge here, when oppression hunts them from their homes!” And her
heart swelled with pride, that she was the native of such a land! The
gradations of rank faded before this grand distinction; to be a Briton,
seemed exaltation sufficient! She paused a moment—“How proud a thing
then to be one of those who have made Britain what she is,” whispered a
small voice within the heart of Julia. At the moment her eye was fixed in
a certain direction, by the moving a little forward of a figure, hitherto
intercepted by an opposite pillar—it was Edmund! Her heart ceased
beating, fluttered, ceased again, then beat so rapidly as to impede her
breathing.
Edmund leaned against the pillar, and seemed listening attentively
to the music; he had not yet perceived Julia. Her eyes dwelt on the
serious and mournful expression of his noble features, with feelings,
where tenderness seemed to excuse admiration, and admiration to justify
tenderness. His head turned, in a degree scarcely perceptible. Their eyes
met: a sudden glow covered the face of Edmund, and faded instantly; a
look passed, understood by both to be one of recognition, tho’ expressed
only by the standing still of the eye. The time, the circumstances, were
too solemn for more. A voice in the choir pronouncing, “Thou knowest,
Lord, the secrets of our hearts,” seemed to Julia a reproach, for the
mingling of earthly feelings, which had already found a place in her
bosom.
During the performance of the service, evening approached, and lights
became necessary. The coffin had been placed on a platform in the centre
of the church; the canopy had been removed, the pall taken off; the
solemn scene, situated thus, immediately beneath the principal source
of light, while all things else remained in comparative obscurity, had
an effect, imposing in the highest degree. The numerous assembly of
spectators, imperfectly seen,—the occasional gleaming of the arms and
accoutrements of the soldiers,—the shadowy perspective of the aisles,—all
became tributary circumstances, lending additional impressiveness to the
principal object.
There was at this time a total silence throughout the church. After
some moments, the voice of the officiating clergyman was heard, singly,
and solemnly, pronouncing the concluding sentences. And now, the words,
“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” fell on the senses with
that chill, that shuddering, involuntary sympathy with the unconscious
tenant of the grave, which instinct grants, while reason would withhold.
The startling sounds from without, of the discharge, by signal, of
artillery, were heard at the moment, and Julia was aroused from
meditation on the sleep of the grave, by the awful thought of the last
trumpet awaking the dead to judgment.
When the firing ceased, the leading voice of the choir again arose,
and floating over the solemn scene like some invisible dweller in its
hallowed light, sang the inspired and inspiring words, “Blessed are the
dead which die in the Lord! even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from
their labours.”
The organ pealed, and now a voice more solemn than the last, sang, or
rather seemed to say, “His body is buried in peace!” An hundred voices at
once broke forth in reply, triumphantly proclaiming, “But his name liveth
evermore! his name liveth evermore!”