A strange awe came over him as he unfolded the paper. The hand that had traced it was no longer of earth; the spirit that had dictated it was removed to another sphere. Yet he fancied, as he read the paper, that the soft blue eyes of Clary looked into his own; that her bright golden locks fanned his feverish cheek; that she was actually before him. Several times he started and looked up into the face of the chaplain before he could dispel the vision.
"Anthony, Dear Anthony, (she wrote.)
"This will meet you at a time when sorrow for my death will be lost in joy, that we shall so soon meet in heaven. Fear not, Anthony; that hour may be far distant. God is just. You are innocent; trust in him. Trust firmly, nothing wavering, and he will save you. I have wept for you, prayed for you; would that I could die for you! My soul has been poured forth in tears; but never for one moment have I abused our holy friendship by imagining you guilty. Weep not for me, dear Anthony; I am happy. God is taking me from the evil to come, from the anguish of seeing you the husband of another. Death has no sting; I welcome him as a friend.
|
"Why should I dread thee, Death? Stern friend in solemn guise; One pause of this frail breath, And then the skies! |
"When restored to peace, to happiness, and to Juliet, think kindly of me. Remember how I loved you—how I delighted in all that delights and interests you. But not in crowded halls would I have you recall my image;—my heart was solitary amidst the dust and rubbish of the gay world. But in spring, when the earth is bright with flowers, when the sun looks down in love upon creation, when the full streams are flowing on with a voice of joy, when the song of birds makes glad the forest-bowers, when every blade of grass is dressed in beauty, and every leaf and flower glows with the light of life, and the unsophisticated untried heart of youth breathes forth its ardent aspiration to the throne of God—then, Anthony, think of me. My spirit will hover about your path; my voice will murmur in the breeze; and the recollection of what I was, of all my faith and love, will be dear to your heart.
And thus ended poor Clary's letter. Anthony folded it up carefully, and laid it next his heart. The hope she had endeavored to inspire did not desert him at that moment. He was resigned to his fate; he even wished to die. Her simple child-like letter had done more to reconcile him to his doom than the pious lectures of the good priest, and his own deep reflections on the subject. The madness of all human pursuits—the vanity and frivolity of life—now awoke in his breast sensations of pity and disgust. But love and friendship—those drops of honey in the cup of gall—did not their sweetness in this hour of desolation atone for the bitter dregs, and hold him to earth? The mighty struggle was to rend asunder these new-formed and holy ties. For him there existed no hope of a reprieve. Wise and good men had tried and found him guilty of a crime which, in all ages, had been held in execration by mankind. He was not a common criminal; for him there existed no sympathy, no pity. The voice of humanity was against him; the whole world united in his condemnation.
It was his last night upon earth; yet amidst its silent dreary watches, when these thoughts flitted through his mind, he wished it past. A thousand times he caught himself repeating from Dr. Young that memorable line, as if to fortify himself against the coming event,
| "Man receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow." |
But it was not the mere death-pang—the separation of matter and spirit—that he shrank from. It was the loathed gibbet; that disgusting relic of a barbarous age, the revolting exhibition, the public and disgraceful manner of his death, that made it so terrible. And he sighed, and prayed to God to grant him patience, and fell into a deep tranquil sleep, from which he did not awake until the hour of his departure was at hand.