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.