About half a mile from the Glebe house of Castle Cumber, the meek and unassuming curate entered into an abode of misery and sorrow, which would require a far more touching pen than ours to describe. A poor widow sat upon the edge of a little truckle bed with the head of one of her children on her lap; another lay in the same bed silent and feeble, and looking evidently ill. Mr. Clement remembered to have seen the boy whom she supported, not long before playing about the cottage, his rosy cheeks heightened into a glow of health and beauty by the exercise, and his fair, thick-clustered hair blown about by the breeze. The child was dying, and the tender power of a mother's love prompted her to keep him as near her breaking heart as she could, during the short space that remained of his brief existence. When Mr. Clement entered, the lonely mother looked upon him with an aspect of such bitter sorrow, of such helpless supplication in her misery, as if she said, am I left to the affliction of my own heart! Am I cut off from the piety and comfort, which distress like mine ought to derive from Christian sympathy and fellowship! Have I not even a human face to look upon, but those of my dying children! Such in similar circumstances are the questions which the heart will ask. She could not immediately speak, but with the head of her dying boy upon her heart she sat in mute and unbroken agony, every pang of her departing orphan throwing a deeper shade of affliction over her countenance, and a keener barb of sorrow into her heart.
The champion of God, however, was at his post. He advanced to the bed-side, and in tones which proclaimed the fulness of his sympathy in her sufferings, and with a countenance lit up by that trust in heaven which long trials of his own and similar bereavements had given him, he addressed her in words of comfort and consolation, and raised her heart to better hopes than any which this world of care and trial can bestow. It is difficult, however, to give comfort in such moments, nor is it prudent to enforce it too strongly. The widow looked upon her boy's face, which was sweetly marked with the graces of innocence, even in the throes of death. The light of life was nearly withdrawn from his dim blue eye; but he felt from time to time for the mother's, hands, and the mother's bosom. He was striving, too, to utter his little complaint; attempting probably to describe his sufferings, and to beg relief from his unhappy parent; but the dissolving power of death was on all his faculties; his words lapsed into each, other indistinctly, and were consequently unintelligible. Mrs. Vincent, for such was the widow's name, heard the words addressed to her by Mr. Clement; she raised her eyes, to heaven for a moment, and then turned them, heavy with misery, upon her dying boy. Her heart—her hopes:—almost her whole being were peculiarly centered in the object before her; and though she had imagined that sympathy might support her, she now felt that no human power could give her consolation. The tears were falling fast from Mr. Clement's cheeks, who felt, that until the agonies of the boy were over, it would be vain to offer her any kind of support. At length she exclaimed—
“Oh! Saviour, who suffered the agony of the cross, and who loved little children like him, let your mercy descend upon my beloved! Suffer him to come to you soon. Oh! Saviour—hear a mother's prayer, for I loved him above all, and he was our life! Core of my heart, you are striving to tell your mother what you suffer, but the weight of death is upon your tongue, and you cannot do it! I am here, my beloved sufferer—I am here—you struggle to find my hands to tell me—to tell me—but I cannot help you.”
“Mrs. Vincent,” said the curate, “we have reason to believe that what appears to us to be the agony of death, is not felt so severely as we imagine; strive to moderate your grief—and reflect that he will soon be in peace, and joy, and happiness, that will never end. His little sorrows and sufferings will soon be over, and the bosom of a merciful God will receive him into life and glory.”
“But, sir,” replied the widow, the tears fast streaming down her cheeks, “do you not see what he suffers? Look at the moisture that is on his little brow, and see how he writhes with the pain. He thinks that I can stop it, and it is for that he presses my hand. During his whole illness that was still his cry—'oh, mother, take away this pain, why don't you take away the pain!'”
Mr. Clement was a father, and an affectionate one, and this allusion to the innocence of the little sufferer touched his heart, and he was silent.
The widow proceeded: “there he lies, my only—only son—his departed father's image, and I looked up to him to be one day my support, my pride, and my happiness—but see what he is now! Oh! James, James, wouldn't I lay down my life to save yours!”
“You look at the dark side of the picture, Mrs. Vincent,” said the curate. “Think upon what he may escape by his early and his happy death. You know not, but that there was crime, and sin, and affliction before him. Consider how many parents there are now in the world, who would feel happy that their children, who bring shame, and distress, and misery upon them, had been taken to God in their childhood. And, surely, there is still a God to provide for your self and your other little ones; for remember, you have still those who have tender claims upon your heart.”
“I know you are right, sir,” she replied “but in cases like this, nature must have its way. Death, death, but you're cruel! Oh—blessed Father, what is this!”
One last convulsive spasm, one low agonizing groan, accompanied by a relaxation of the little fingers which had pressed her hands, closed the sufferings of the widow's pride. She stooped wildly over him and pressed him to her heart, as if by doing so she could draw his pains into her own frame, as they Were already in her spirit; but his murmurings were silent, and on looking closely into his countenance, she perceived that his Redeemer had, indeed, suffered her little one to go unto him; that all his little pains and agonies were over forever.