Tracing, then, these exquisite adumbrations throughout the spiritual aspect of life, is it strange that we have learned to look upon these frail children of the beautiful as one of the connecting links with heaven? Of such every heart has its conservatory; every home its storehouse of withered, scentless mementoes, that recall, when the gates of the sanctuary are unbarred, memories deep and voiceless, and faces whose beauty has paled, like them, in dust. Here is the remnant of a cross of white immortelles. It was taken from the breast of a loved one who died far away in a foreign land, among strangers. It was sent with the last spoken words to comfort and uplift the heart of the mourners; and as we lift it from the sacred casket, the echo of those words seems to take form in the rustle of its blighted leaves, and the old, subdued sorrow breaks out afresh before the multitudinous memories and images evoked by a withered flower.
Here lie together a sprig of orange blossom and a white rosebud, double memorial of a happy bridal and an early grave. Ere the perfume of the orange blossom had faded from her brow, the white rose lay on her pulseless heart. Ere the echo of the wedding march had died on the air, it was merged into a requiem dirge of woe.
Ah this spray of brown leaves! what memories lie folded in its veins! A picture of a lone, far away grave rises, and by its side kneel a wife and daughter, come from a great distance to pay some tribute to a beloved one's last resting-spot in a land of strangers. Desolate looked the bare, uncultivated mound; but at the head some tender stranger's hand had placed a plain wooden cross to mark the spot for the absent ones, and planted a wild rose which twined its arms over and around the cross in graceful beauty, as if to offer a poor substitute for the visits of loving friends. How warmly the prayers of the widow went forth for that unknown one who had thus filled the place and thoughtfulness of the absent!
A prisoner walks rapidly up and down the parapet of the Capitol prison in Washington, the wild throbbings of his heart keeping time to the tramp, tramp of his restless feet, which long for space, for liberty, and the sound of the brother voices that send their wild echo from the other side of the Potomac. Suddenly the laughter of a child's voice sounds above him, and, as he in surprise raises his eyes, lo! a cherub head looks from a window down upon him, and the little hands drop at his feet a half-blown rose.
"War's wild alarum call" suddenly dies out, and the soldier's dream of glory gives place to the man's warm love. The wide blue sea no longer rolls between him and home, and over and above the din of battle floats the voice of mother and sister in loving prayer for the absent one, who, impelled by a noble people's cry for aid, hastened to the rescue, and found instead of the élan of battle the cold, dark walls of a prison home. Lo! the power and pathos of a little child and a fragile flower within the walls of a dungeon.
A father kneels in grief unutterable by the soulless body of a little daughter. In the agony of his rebellious grief, he prays to God to send him one ray of comfort, one gleam of light, to see and know that the transition is at least well for her. As he raises his head, his eyes fall upon the family Bible, and with the prayer still in his heart he opens its leaves, and his finger, as if guided by an angel, falls upon these lines, "And he took the damsel by her hand, and said unto her, I say unto thee, arise." With the sacred verse, there came shining down into his heart a clear, sweet perception of the fact that at that very moment our Lord Jesus Christ, who alone is the resurrection and the life, was raising up out of her cold and lifeless form that beautiful, spiritual body in which little Lucy will exist as an angel for ever. He plucked some white and green leaves from the flowers which lay in the dead child's hands, and placed them on that verse of the sacred volume.
"Years have passed away, and they are there still, pale and withered, sacred little mementoes of the consolation which came like a voice from heaven in his hour of need. When he is haunted by sorrowful memories, and falls into states of desolation and despair, he opens that holy book, and kisses those faded leaves, and his spirit is sometimes elevated into that mount which the three disciples ascended with their Lord, and there, by the permission of the same Redeemer who makes every child an image of himself, he sees the body of his little daughter transfigured in glory!" [Footnote 162]
[Footnote 162: Our Children in Heaven, by W. H. Holcombe, M.D. ]
In a white alabaster box, yellowed by the mould of years, are lying, side by side, a crisp, golden curl, a sprig of lily of the valley, and a tuberose. Through the mist of tears that fill the eye rise the angelic features of a little girl, the first-born of her mother. The joyous laughter, the music of the little feet, the endless activity of the waxen fingers, ere they closed lifelessly over those tender lily sprays, all take form and life in presence of these mute memorials. Other children God sent to console the mother for the loss of this little one, and long, long years have ripened them into men and women, and sent them forth to fill the various missions of life that separate them from mother and home. But to the long and early lost, the maternal heart now yearningly turns, as still, above all others, the child of her love. No stronger earthly ties stand between them even now; the mother holds her place supreme here, and feels that for her, above all others on earth, those little hands are folded in prayer, and that sweet-toned voice raised in songs of supplication.