It was long, very long ere Mr. Hamilton's family recovered the shock of
Mary's death. She had been so long loved, living amongst them from her
birth, her virtues and gentleness were so well known and appreciated by
every member. She had been by Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton so long considered
as their child, by her betrothment with their Herbert, that they
sorrowed for her as if indeed she had been bound to them by that tender
tie; and her poor mother now indeed felt desolate: her only treasure,
her precious, almost idolized Mary, was taken from her, and she was
childless, for of Alfred she had long ceased to receive intelligence.
She bowed her head, earnestly striving for submission, but it was long,
long ere peace returned; soothed she was indeed by the tender kindness
of her friends; but what on earth can soothe a bereaved and doting
mother? Emmeline, Ellen, Herbert, even Arthur Myrvin, treated her with
all the love and reverence of children, but neither could fill the
aching void within. On Herbert indeed her spirit rested with more
fondness than on any other object, but it was with a foreboding love;
she looked on him and trembled. It was a strange and affecting sight,
could any one have looked on those two afflicted ones: to hear Herbert
speak words of holy comfort to the mother of his Mary, to hear him speak
of hope, of resignation, mark the impress of that heavenly virtue on
his pale features; his grief was all internal, not a word escaped his
lips, not a thought of repining crossed his chastened mind. The extent
of that deep anguish was seen alone in his fading form, in his pallid
features; but it was known only to the Searcher of all hearts. He had
wished to perform the last office to his Mary, but his father and
Archdeacon Howard conjured him to abandon the idea, and suffer the
latter to take his place. All were bathed in tears during that solemn
and awful service. Scarcely could Mr. Howard command his voice
throughout, and his concluding words were wholly inaudible. But no
movement was observable in Herbert's slight and boyish form; enveloped
in his long mourning robe, his features could not be seen, but there was
somewhat around him that created in the breasts of all who beheld him a
sensation of reverence. All departed from the lowly grave, but Herbert
yet remained motionless and silent. His father and Myrvin gently sought
to lead him away, but scarcely had he proceeded two paces, when he sunk
down on the grass in a long and deathlike swoon; so painfully had it the
appearance of death, that his father and friends believed for a time his
spirit had indeed fled to seek his Mary; but he recovered. There was
such an aspect of serenity and submission on his countenance, that all
who loved him would have been at peace, had not the thought pressed
heavily on their minds that such feelings were not long for earth.
These fainting fits returned at intervals, and Mrs. Hamilton, whilst she
struggled to lift up her soul in undying faith to the God of Love, and
resignedly commit into His hands the life and death of her beloved son,
yet every time she gazed on him, while lying insensible before her, felt
more and more how difficult was the lesson she so continually strove to
learn; how hard it would be to part from him, if indeed he were called
away. She compared her lot with Mrs. Greville's, and thought how much
greater was her trial; and yet she, too, was a mother, and though so
many other gifts were vouchsafed her, Herbert was as dear to her as Mary
had been to Mrs. Greville. Must she lose him now, now that the fruit she
had so fondly cherished, watched as it expanded from the infant germ,
had bloomed so richly to repay her care, would he be taken from her now
that every passing month appeared to increase his love for her and hers
for him? for Herbert clung to his mother in this dread hour of
affliction with increasing fondness. True, he never spoke the extent of
his feelings even to her, but his manner betrayed how much he loved her,
how deeply he felt her sympathy, which said that next to his God, he
leaned on her.
At first Mr. Hamilton wished his son to resign the Rectory and join his
brother and sister at Geneva, and then accompany Percy on his travels;
but mournfully yet steadily Herbert rejected this plan.
"No, father," he said. "My duties as a son and brother, as well as the
friend and father of the flock committed to my charge, will be far more
soothing and beneficial, believe me, than travelling in far distant
lands. My health is at present such, that my home and the beloved
friends of my infancy appear dearer to me than ever, and I cannot part
from them to seek happiness elsewhere. I will do all in my power, by the
steady discharge of my many and interesting duties, to preserve my
health and restore peace and contentment. I seek not to resign my charge
in this world till my Saviour calls me; His work has yet to be done on,
earth, and till He dismisses me, I will cheerfully perform it; till then
do not ask me to forsake it."
Mr. Hamilton wrung his son's hand in silence, and never again urged his
departure.
There was no selfishness in Herbert's sorrow; he was still the devoted
son, the affectionate brother, the steady friend to his own immediate
circle; and to the poor committed to his spiritual charge, he was in
truth, as he had said he would be, a father and a friend. In soothing
the sufferings of others, his own became less bitterly severe; in
bidding others hope, and watch, and pray, he found his own spirit
strengthened and its frequent struggles calmed. With such unwavering
steadiness were his duties performed, that his bodily sufferings never
could have been discovered, had not those alarming faints sometimes
overpowered him in the cottages he visited ere his duties were
completed; and he was thankful, when such was the case, that it occurred
when from home, that his mother was thus sometimes spared anxiety. He
would walk on quietly home, remain some little time in his own chamber,
and then join his family cheerful and composed as usual, that no one
might suspect he had been ill.
Arthur Myrvin often gazed on his friend with emotions of admiration,
almost amounting to awe. His love for Emmeline was the strongest feeling
of his heart, and when for a moment he fancied her snatched from him, as
Mary had been from Herbert, he felt he knew he could not have acted like
his friend: he must have flown from scenes, every trace of which could
speak of the departed, or, if he had remained, he could not, as Herbert
did, have attended to his duties, have been like him so calm.
In the society of his cousin Ellen, Herbert found both solace and
pleasure. She had been so devoted to the departed, that he felt he loved
her more fondly than he had ever done, and he would seek her as the
companion of a walk, and give her directions as to the cottages he
sometimes wished her to visit, with a portion of his former animation,
but Ellen never permitted herself to be deceived; it was still a
brother's love, she knew it never could be more, and she struggled long
to control, if not to banish, the throb of joy that ever filled her
bosom when she perceived there were times she had power to call the
smile to Herbert's pensive features.
Percy's letters were such as to soothe his brother by his affectionate
sympathy; to betray more powerfully than ever to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton
how dear to each other were their sons, how pure and consoling was the
friendship subsisting between them, and on other points to give much
pleasure to all his family. Caroline's health was much improved; her
little son, Percy declared, was such a nice, merry fellow, and so
handsome, that he was quite sure he resembled in all respects what he,
Percy Hamilton, must have been at the venerable age of two years. He
said farther, that as Lord and Lady St. Eval were going to make the tour
of the principal cities of Europe, he should remain with them and be
contented with what they saw, instead of rambling alone all over the
world, as he had intended. At first Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were somewhat
surprised at this decision, but knowing the nature of their son, began
to fancy that a certain Miss Manvers had something to do with it, the
sister of Lord Delmont, the Earl St. Eval's most intimate friend, and
the chosen friend of Mary Greville during her residence at Monte Rosa.
In Lord Delmont's will he had left the Earl guardian of his sister
during the year that intervened before her coming of age, an office
which rendered St. Eval still more intimate with the family. On his way
to Geneva he had heard from Miss Manvers of her mother's death, and that
she was residing with an English family on the banks of the Lake. The
information that her brother's friends, and indeed her own, with his
wife and family, intended spending some little time at Geneva, was a
source of so much pleasure, that after a little hesitation she accepted
the earnest invitation of both the Earl and his lady, and gladly and
gratefully consented to reside with them during their stay in
Switzerland, and then accompany them on their intended tour.
The strong affection Percy bore his brother rendered him long unable to
regain his usual mirth and flow of spirits, and he found the
conversation of Louisa Manvers even more pleasing than ever. Mary had
made her perfectly acquainted with Herbert, and therefore, though she
had never seen him, she was well enabled to enter into the deep
affliction the loss of his betrothed must have occasioned him. Percy
could speak to her as often as he pleased of his brother and Mary, and
ever found sympathy and interest attached to the subject. Thus the idea
of travelling alone, when his sister's family offered such attractions,
became absolutely irksome to him, and he was pleased to see that his
plan of joining them was not disagreeable to Miss Manvers. Mr. Hamilton
sent his unqualified approval of Percy's intentions, and Herbert also
wrote sufficiently of himself to satisfy the anxious affection of his
brother.
There was only one disappointing clause in Percy's plans, and he
regretted it himself, and even hinted that if his sister still very much
wished it, he would give up his intention, and return home in time to be
present, as he had promised, at her wedding. He wrote in his usual
affectionate strain both to Emmeline and Myrvin, but neither was selfish
enough to wish such a sacrifice.
At Herbert's earnest entreaty, the marriage of his sister was, however,
fixed rather earlier than she had intended. It was not, he said, as if
their marriage was to be like Caroline's, the signal for a long course
of gaiety and pleasure; that Emmeline had always determined on only her
own family being present, and everything would be so quiet, he was sure
there could be no necessity for a longer postponement.
"My Mary wished to have beheld your union," his lip trembled as he
spoke; "had not her illness so rapidly increased she wished to have been
present, and could she now speak her wishes, it would be to bid you be
happy--no longer to defer your union for her sake. Do not defer it, dear
Emmeline," he added, in a somewhat sadder tone, "we know not the events
of an hour, and wherefore should we delay? it will be such joy to me to
unite my friend and my sister, to pour forth on their love the blessing
of the Lord."
There was something so inexpressibly sweet yet mournful in his
concluding words, that Emmeline, unable to restrain the impulse, leaned
upon his neck and wept.
"Do not chide my weakness, Herbert," she tried to say, "these are not
tears of unmingled sadness; oh, could I but see you happy."
"And you will, my sweet sister: soon--very soon, I shall be happy,
quite--quite happy," he added, in a lower tone, as he fondly kissed her
brow.
Emmeline had not marked the tone of his concluding words, she had not
seen the expression of his features; but Ellen had, and a cold yet
indefinable thrill passed through her heart, and left a pang behind,
which she could not conquer the whole of that day. She understood it
not, for she _would_ not understand.
Urged on, however, a few days afterwards, during a walk with Herbert,
she asked him why he was so anxious the ceremony should take place
without delay.
"Because, my dear Ellen, I look forward to the performance of this
ceremony as a source of pleasure which I could not bear to resign to
another."
"To another, Herbert; what do you mean? Do you think of following my
uncle's advice, and resigning your duties for a time, for the purpose of
travel?"
"No, Ellen; those duties will not be resigned till I am called away;
they are sources of enjoyment and consolation too pure to be given up. I
do not wish my sister's wedding to be deferred, for I know not how soon
my Saviour may call me to Himself."
"May we not all urge that plea, my dear cousin?" said Ellen; "and yet in
your sermon last Sunday, you told us to do all things soberly, to give
due reflection to things of weight, particularly those in which temporal
and eternal interests were united; not to enter rashly and hastily into
engagements, not too quickly to put off the garb of mourning, and plunge
once more into the haunts of pleasure." She paused.
"I did say all this, Ellen, I own; but it has not much to do with our
present subject. Emmeline's engagement with Arthur has not been entered
on rashly or in haste. She does not throw off the garb of mourning to
forget the serious thoughts it may have encouraged; and though you are
right, we none of us can know how soon we may be called away, yet,
surely, it behoves those unto whom the dart has sped, the mandate been
given, to set their house in order for they shall surely die, and not
live the usual period of mortals."
"But who can tell this, Herbert? who are so favoured as to know the
actual moment when the dart has sped and how soon it will reach them?
should we not all live as if death were near?"
"Undoubtedly, we should so order our souls, as ever to be ready to
render them back to Him who gave them; but we cannot always so arrange
our worldly matters, as we should, did we know the actual moment of
death's appearance; our business may require constant care, we may have
dear objects for whom it is our duty to provide, to the best of our
power, and did we know when we should die, these things would lose the
interest they demand. Death should, indeed, be ever present to our
minds; it should follow us in our joy as in our sorrow, and never will
it come as a dark and gloomy shadow to those who in truth believe; but
wise and merciful is the decree that conceals from us the moment of our
departure. Were the gates of Heaven thus visible, how tame and cold
would this world appear; how few would be the ties we should form, how
insignificant would seem those duties which on earth we are commanded to
perform. No, to prepare our souls to be ready at a minute's warning to
return to their heavenly home is the duty of all. More is not expected
from those in perfect health; but, Ellen, when a mortal disease is
consuming this earthly tabernacle, when, though Death linger, he is
already seen, ay, and even felt approaching, then should we not wind up
our worldly affairs, instead of wilfully blinding our eyes to the truth,
as, alas! too many do? Then should we not 'watch and pray' yet more, not
only for ourselves, but those dearest to us, and do all in our power to
secure their happiness, ere we are called away?"
Ellen could not answer. She understood too well his meaning; a sickness
as of death crept over her, but with an effort she subdued that deadly
faintness; she would have spoken on other things, but her tongue was
parched and dry.
Engrossed in his own solemn feelings, in the wish to prepare his cousin
for the truth, Herbert perceived not her agitation, and, after a
minute's pause, continued tenderly--
"My own cousin, death to you is, I know, not terrible; why then should I
hesitate to impart tidings which to me are full of bliss? The shaft
which bore away my Mary, also entered my heart, and implanted in me the
disease which no mortal skill can cure. Do not chide me for entertaining
an unfounded fancy. Ellen, dear Ellen, I look to you, under heaven, to
support my mother under this affliction. I look to your fond cares to
subdue the pang of parting. You alone of her children will be left near
her, and you can do much to comfort and soothe not only her, but my
father; they will mourn for me, nature will speak, though I go to joy
inexpressible, unutterable! Ellen, speak to me; will you not do this, my
sister, my friend?"
"Give me but a moment," she murmured almost inaudibly, as, overpowered
by increasing faintness, she sunk down on a grassy bank near them, and
buried her face in her hands. Minutes rolled by, and still there was
silence. Herbert sat down beside her, threw his arm around her, and
pressed a brother's kiss upon her cold, damp brow. She started and would
have risen, but strength failed; for a moment her head leaned against
his bosom, and a burst of tears relieved her. "Forgive me, Herbert," she
said, striving at once for composure and voice. "Oh, weak as I am, do
not repent your confidence. It was unexpected, sudden; the idea of
parting was sharper than at the first moment I could bear, but it will
soon be over, very, very soon; do not doubt me, Herbert." She fixed her
mournful eyes upon his face, and her cheek was very pale, "Yes," she
said, with returning strength, "trust me, dear Herbert, I will be to my
aunt, my more than mother, ever as you wish. My every care, my every
energy shall be employed to soften that deep anguish which--" She could
not complete the sentence, but quickly added, "the deep debt of
gratitude I owe her, not a whole life can repay. Long have I felt it,
long wished to devote myself to her and to my uncle, and this charge has
confirmed me in my resolution. Yes, dearest Herbert, while Ellen lives,
never, never shall my beloved aunt be lonely."
Herbert understood not the entire signification of his cousin's words;
he knew not, that simple as they were to his ears, to her they were a
vow sacred and irrevocable. She knew she could never, never love
another, and there was something strangely soothing in the thought, that
it was his last request that consecrated her to his mother, to her
benefactress. To feel that, in endeavouring to repay the dept of
gratitude she owed, she could associate Herbert intimately with her
every action, so to perform his last charge, that could he look down
from heaven it would be to bless her.
Herbert knew not the intensity of Ellen's feelings, still less did he
imagine he was the object of her ill-fated affection. Never once had
such a suspicion crossed his mind; that she loved him he doubted not,
but he thought it was as Emmeline loved. He trusted in her strength of
character, and therefore had he spoken openly; and could Ellen regret
his confidence, when she found that after that painful day, her society
appeared dearer, more consoling to him than ever?
Although some members of her family could not be present at Emmeline's
wedding, a hasty visit from Edward was a source of joy to all. He was
about to sail to the shores of Africa in a small frigate, in which he
had been promoted to the second in command, an honour which had elevated
his spirits even beyond their usual buoyancy. He had been much shocked
and grieved at his sister's account of Mary's death, and Herbert's deep
affliction; but after he had been at home a few days, the influence of
his natural light-heartedness extended over all, and rendered Oakwood
more cheerful than it had been since the melancholy event we have
narrated.
To Lilla Grahame it was indeed a pleasure to revisit Oakwood,
particularly when Lieutenant Fortescue was amongst its inmates. Edward's
manner was gallantly courteous to all his fair friends; a stranger might
have found it difficult to say which was his favourite, but there was
something about both him and Miss Grahame which very often called from
Ellen a smile.
It was an interesting group assembled in the old parish church on the
day that united our favourite Emmeline with her long-beloved Arthur, but
it was far from being a day of unmingled gladness. Deep and chastened as
was the individual and mutual happiness of the young couple, they could
neither of them forget that there was a beloved one wanting; that they
had once hoped the same day that beheld their nuptials would have
witnessed also those of Herbert and his Mary.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had looked with some degree of dread to this day,
as one of painful recollection to Herbert; but he, perhaps of all who
were around him, was the most composed, and as the impressive ceremony
continued, he thought only of those dear ones whose fate he thus united;
he felt only the solemn import of the prayers he said, and his large and
beautiful eyes glistened with enthusiasm as in former days. It would
have been a sweet group for a skilful painter, those three principal
figures beside the altar. Herbert, as we have described him; Emmeline,
in her simple garb of white, her slight figure and peculiarly feminine
expression of countenance causing her to appear very many years younger
than in reality she was; and Arthur, too, his manly features radiant
with chastened yet perfect happiness, seemed well fitted to be the
protector, the friend of the gentle being who so soon would call him
husband, and look to him alone for happiness. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton
rejoiced that their beloved child was at length blessed in the
gratification of her long-cherished, long-controlled hopes; that, as far
as human eye could penetrate, they had secured her happiness by giving
her to the man she loved. There was one other kneeling beside the altar
on whom Mrs. Hamilton looked with no small anxiety, for the emotion she
perceived, appeared to confirm the idea that it was indeed Arthur Myrvin
who had engrossed the affections of her niece. There are mysteries in
the human heart for which we seek in vain to account; associations and
sympathies that come often uncalled-for and unwished. Ellen knew not
wherefore the scene she witnessed pressed strangely on her heart; she
struggled against the feeling, and she might perhaps have succeeded in
concealing her inward emotions, but suddenly she looked on Herbert. She
marked him radiant, it seemed, in health and animation, his words
flashed across her mind; soon would the hue of death be on that cheek,
the light of that eye be dimmed, that sweet and thrilling voice be
hushed on earth for ever; that beautiful form bent down as a flower,
"the wind passeth over it and it is gone, and the place thereof shall
know it no more;" and thus would it soon be with him she loved. The gush
of feeling mocked all her efforts at control, Ellen buried her face in
her hands, and her slight frame shook, and the low choking sob was
distinctly heard in the brief silence that followed the words, "Those
whom God hath joined let no man put asunder."
Arthur, at Emmeline's own desire, conducted his bride at once to the
small yet comfortable home which had been prepared for her in his
vicarage on Lord St. Eval's estate. That her residence was so near them
was a great source of pleasure to both her parents, and the feeling that
her home was in the centre of all she loved, not only so near the
beloved guardians of her infancy but Caroline and St. Eval, would have
added to her cup of joy, had it not been already full to overflowing;
the pang of parting was thus soothed to both mother and child. Even more
than Caroline, Mrs. Hamilton felt she should miss the gentle girl, who
scarcely from her infancy had given her one moment's pain; but in the
happiness of her child she too was blessed, and thankfully she raised
her voice to Him whose blessing, in the rearing of her children, she had
so constantly and fervently implored, and the mother's fond and yearning
heart was comforted.
Though Ellen had smiled, and seemed to every eye but that of her
watchful aunt the same as usual the whole of that day, yet Mrs. Hamilton
could not resist the impulse that bade her seek her when all had retired
to their separate apartments. Ellen had been gone some time, but she was
sitting in a posture of deep thought, in which she had sunk on first
entering her room. She did not observe her aunt, and Mrs. Hamilton
traced many tears slowly, almost one by one, fall upon her
tightly-clasped hands, ere she found voice to speak.
"Ellen, my sweet child!"
Ellen sprung up, she threw herself into those extended arms, and hid her
tearful eyes on her aunt's bosom.
"I have but you now, my own Ellen, to cheer my old age and enliven our
deserted hearth. You must not leave me yet, dearest. I cannot part with
you."
"Oh, no, no; I will never, never leave you. Your home shall be my home,
my more than mother; and where you go, Ellen will follow," she murmured,
speaking unconsciously in the spirit of one of the sweetest characters
the Sacred Book presents. "Do not ask me to leave you; indeed, indeed,
no home will be to me like yours."
"Speak not, then, so despondingly, my Ellen," replied Mrs. Hamilton,
fondly kissing her. "Never shall you leave me without your own full and
free consent. Do you remember, love, when I first promised that?" she
continued, playfully; for she sought not to draw from Ellen the secret
of her love, she only wished to soothe, to cheer, to tell her, however
unrequited might be her affections, still she was not desolate, and when
she left her, fully had she succeeded. Ellen was comforted, though she
scarcely knew wherefore.
Some few months passed after the marriage of Emmeline, and the domestic
peace of Oakwood yet remained undisturbed. There were times when Ellen
hoped she had been deceived, that Herbert had been deceived himself. But
Myrvin dared not hope; he was not with his friend as constantly as Ellen
was, and almost every time he beheld him he fancied he perceived an
alarming change.
About this time a malignant disease broke out in the neighbourhood of
the Dart, whose awful ravages it appeared as if no medical aid was
adequate to stop. In Herbert Hamilton's parish the mortality was
dreadful, and his duties were consequently increased, painfully to
himself and alarmingly to his family. A superhuman strength seemed,
however, suddenly granted him. Whole days, frequently whole nights, he
spent in the cottages of the afflicted poor. Soothing, encouraging,
compelling even the hardened and impenitent to own the power of the
religion he taught; bidding even them bow in unfeigned penitence at the
footstool of their Redeemer, and robbing death, in very truth, of its
sting. The young, the old, men in their prime, were carried off. The
terrible destroyer knew no distinction of age or sex or rank. Many a
young child would cease its wailing cry of suffering when its beloved
pastor entered the lowly cot, and with the fondness of a parent, with
that smile of pitying love which few hearts can resist, would seek to
soothe the bodily anguish, while at the same moment he taught the young
soul that death was not terrible; that it was but a few moments of pain
to end in everlasting bliss; that they were going to Him who had said
"Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of
heaven." From the old, Herbert would learn many a lesson of piety and
resignation, and feel that attendance on such beds of death was in truth
a blessing to himself.
Fearlessly, for her trust was fixed on the Rock of Righteousness, did
Ellen second the exertions of her cousin in this time of general
affliction. There were many who sought to deter her, for they whispered
the disease was contagious, but Ellen heeded them not, nor did Mrs.
Hamilton, herself so active in seasons of distress, seek to dissuade
her. "The arm of my God is around me, alike in the cottages of the dying
as in the fancied security of Oakwood," she said one day to Herbert, who
trembled for her safety, though for himself no fears had ever entered
his mind. "If it is His will that I too should feel His chastening rod,
it will find me though I should never leave my home; my trust is in Him.
I go in the humble hope to do His work, and He will not forsake me,
Herbert."
Herbert trembled for her no more, and an active and judicious assistant
did he find her. For six weeks the disease continued unabated; about
that time it began to decline, and hopes were entertained that it was
indeed departing.
There was moisture in the eyes of the young minister, as he looked
around him one Sabbath evening on the diminished number of his
congregation; so many of whom were either clad in mourning, or bore on
their countenance the marks of recent suffering, over the last victim
the whole family at Oakwood had sincerely mourned, for it was that kind
old woman whom we have mentioned more than once as being connected with
the affairs we have related. Nurse Langford had gone to her last home,
and both Ellen and Herbert dreaded writing the intelligence to her
affectionate son, who was now in Percy's service. She had been buried
only the day previous. Her seat was exactly opposite the pulpit, where
she had so often said it was such a blessing to look on the face of her
dear Master Herbert, and hear such blessed truths from his lips. She now
was gone. Herbert looked on her vacant seat, and it was then his eyes
glistened in starting tears. He had seen his cousin look towards the
same place, and though her veil was closely drawn down, he _felt_ her
tears were falling fast and thick upon her book. More than usually
eloquent was the young clergyman that day, in the discourse he had
selected as most appropriate to the feelings of those present. He spoke
of death, and, with an eloquence affecting in its pure simplicity, he
alluded to the loss of those we love. "Wherefore should I say loss, my
brethren?" he said, in conclusion. "They have but departed to mansions
of undying joy: to earth they may be lost, but not to us. Oh, no, God
cursed the ground for man's sake--it is fading, perishable! There will
be a new heaven and a new earth, but the spirit which God breathed
within us shall not see corruption. Released from this earthly shell, we
shall again behold those who have departed first; they will meet us
rejoicing, singing aloud the praises of that unutterable love that
redeemed and saved us, removing the curse pronounced on man, even as on
earth, making us heirs of eternal life, of everlasting glory! My
brethren, Death has been amongst us, but how clothed? to us who remain,
perhaps for a time in sadness; but to those who have triumphantly
departed, even as an angel of light, guiding them to the portals of
heaven. Purified by suffering and repentance, their garments white as
snow, they encircle the throne of their Saviour; and those whose lives
below were those of toil and long suffering, are now among the blessed.
Shall we then weep for them, my friends? Surely not. Let us think of
them, and follow in their paths, that our last end may be like theirs,
that we may rejoin them, never again to part!
"Are there any here who fear to die? Are there any who shrink and
tremble when they think they may be the next it may please the Lord to
call? My Christian brethren, think awhile, and such thoughts will cease
to appal you. To the heathen alone is death the evil spirit, the
blackening shadow which, when called to mind, will poison his dearest
joys! To us, brethren, what is it? In pain it tells us of ease; in
strife or tumult, that the grave is a place of quiet; in the weariness
of exhausted spirits, that the end of all these things is at hand. Who
ever found perfect joy on earth? Are we not restless, even in the midst
of happiness? Death tells us of a purer happiness, in which there is no
weariness, no satiety. When we look around on those we love, when we
feel the blessings of affection, death tells us that we shall love them
still better in heaven! Is death then so terrible? Oh, let us think on
it thus in life and health, and in the solitude and silence of our
chamber such thoughts will not depart from us. Let these reflections
pervade us as we witness the dying moments of those we love, and we
shall find even for us death has no sting; for we shall meet again in a
world where death and time shall be no more! Oh, my beloved brethren,
let us go home, and in our closets thank God that His chastening hand
appears about to be removed from us, and so beseech Him to enlighten our
eyes to look on death, and so to give us that faith, which alone can
make us whole, and give us peace, that we may say with the venerable
Simeon, 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine
eyes have seen thy salvation.'"
He ceased, and a solemn stillness reigned within the church. For a
moment the young clergyman bowed his head in silent prayer upon his
book, and then he raised his clasped hands on high, and, in a voice of
almost unearthly sweetness and power, gave the parting benediction. The
flush was observed to fade from his cheek, the lustre depart from his
eye; he raised his hand languidly to his damp brow, and in another
minute Mr. Hamilton darted from his seat, and received his son in his
arms, in a long and deathlike swoon, That same evening beheld Herbert
Hamilton, the beloved, the good, stretched on his couch a victim to the
same fearful disease, to remove the sting of which he had so long and
perseveringly laboured.