Calm as a child to slumber soothed,
As if an angel’s hand had smoothed
The still, white features into rest—
Silent and cold, without a breath
To stir the drapery on her breast,
She slept, at last, in death.”—Whittier.
In the political world, the next year, the spirit of party ran very high. A great moral as well as national problem agitated and divided the whole country. Mark Sutherland had been nominated by the Human Rights as their candidate for the United States Senate; he had accepted the nomination, and his friends laboured perseveringly and anxiously for his election. Rosalie, as usual, entered heart and soul into all his toils and anxieties. “And not for ourselves, dearest Mark,” she said; “not for our own profit or vainglory—for that were a poor, mean, narrow motive, and a low, selfish aim!—nor for your own personal honour, Mark—though to him who is worthy of it, to him who appreciates and accepts its duties and responsibilities in the right religious spirit, a seat in the American Senate is a great honour—nor even for your future fame, Mark—not from any or all these motives do I wish and pray and toil for your success—but for the sake of the place and power it will confer upon you of doing good; of speaking appropriate truths before the proper audience; of succouring the oppressed; of defending the right! For this I hope, and trust, and labour, and would, if need were, die!”
And upon another occasion, when he was vexed and harassed, wearied and despondent, and inclined to give up the object as little worthy the labour or the pains, she said to him, sweetly—for her very tone and manner had a soothing, encouraging spell—
“Remember what Mountford says: ‘Fame is a great thing for a man; it is silence for him when he wants to speak; it is a platform to preach from, more authoritative than a monarch’s throne; it is an affectionate attention from a multitude of hearers.’ Win fame, Mark—win the silence that will wait for your voice; the platform more authoritative than the monarch’s throne; the reverential attention of multitudes! Only let sounds of words of truth and justice fall upon the silence; principles of righteousness speak from the platform; and the confiding attention of the crowd be riveted to the glorious right!”
High, inspiring words of holiness like these fell daily from her lips. But Rosalie was dying—dying all the faster because her failing oil of life was consumed so ungrudgingly—her lamp of life shone so brightly, giving light where it was needed. Yes, Rosalie was dying, and her husband did not dream of it. Soothed into rest by her own sweet patience, and by the slowness and beauty of her failure, he did not dream of it! He left her with an increased burden of duties. At the urgent entreaties of his political friends, he went to show himself among the voters of the western counties. He was absent about a month, during which she toiled for “the good cause” faithfully—saying, when her strength was failing, “There will be time enough for rest hereafter; I must ‘work while it is yet day, for the night cometh wherein no man can work.’” And so, at the close of her daily school duties, she only left her school desk to seat herself in the editor’s vacant chair; and the hours that should have been spent in recreation and rest, and the hours that belonged to sleep, were devoted to the interests of “the paper,” and the cause it supported—to writing editorials, to reading and answering letters, examining exchanges, and propitiating or putting down opposition.