IT is strange what a change is wrought in one hour by death. Themoment our friend is gone from us for ever, what sacredness investshim! Everything he ever said or did seems to return to us clothed innew significance. A thousand yearnings rise, of things we would fainsay to him--of questions unanswered, and now unanswerable. All hewore or touched, or looked upon familiarly, becomes sacred asrelics. Yesterday these were homely articles, to be tossed to andfro, handled lightly, given away thoughtlessly--to-day we touch themsoftly, our tears drop on them; death has laid his hand on them, andthey have become holy in our eyes. Those are sad hours when one haspassed from our doors never to return, and we go back to set theplace in order. There the room, so familiar, the homely belongingsof their daily life, each one seems to say to us in its turn,"Neither shall their place know them any more." Clear the shelf nowof vials and cups, and prescriptions; open the windows; step no morecarefully; there is no one now to be cared for--no one to benursed--no one to be awakened.
Ah! why does this bring a secret pang with it when we know that theyare where none shall any more say, "I am sick!" Could only oneflutter of their immortal garments be visible in such moments; couldtheir face, glorious with the light of heaven, once smile on thedeserted room, it might be better. One needs to lose friends tounderstand one's self truly. The death of a friend teaches thingswithin that we never knew before. We may have expected it, preparedfor it, it may have been hourly expected for weeks; yet when itcomes, it falls on us suddenly, and reveals in us emotions we couldnot dream. The opening of those heavenly gate for them startles andflutters our souls with strange mysterious thrills, unfelt before.The glimpse of glories, the sweep of voices, all startle and dazzleus, and the soul for many a day aches and longs with untoldlongings.
We divide among ourselves the possessions of our lost ones. Eachwell-known thing comes to us with an almost supernatural power. Thebook we once read with them, the old Bible, the familiar hymn; thenperhaps little pet articles of fancy, made dear to them by somepeculiar taste, the picture, the vase!--how costly are they now inour eyes.
We value them not for their beauty or worth, but for the frequencywith which we have seen them touched or used by them; and our eyeruns over the collection, and perhaps lights most lovingly on thehomeliest thing which may have been oftenest touched or worn bythem.
It is a touching ceremony to divide among a circle of friends thememorials of the lost. Each one comes inscribed--"no more;" andyet each one, too, is a pledge of reunion. But there are invisiblerelics of our lost ones more precious than the book, the pictures,or the vase. Let us treasure them in our hearts. Let us bind to ourhearts the patience which they will never need again; the fortitudein suffering which belonged only to this suffering state. Let ustake from their dying hand that submission under affliction whichthey shall need no more in a world where affliction is unknown. Letus collect in our thoughts all those cheerful and hopeful sayingswhich they threw out from time to time as they walked with us, andstring them as a rosary to be daily counted over. Let us test ourown daily life by what must be their now perfected estimate; and asthey once walked with us on earth, let us walk with them in heaven.
We may learn at the grave of our lost ones how to live with theliving. It is a fearful thing to live so carelessly as we often dowith those dearest to us, who may at any moment be gone for ever.The life we are living, the words we are now saying, will all belived over in memory over some future grave. One remarks that thedeath of a child often makes parents tender and indulgent! Ah, it isa lesson learned of bitter sorrow! If we would know how to measureour work to living friends, let us see how we feel towards the dead.If we have been neglectful, if we have spoken hasty and unkindwords, on which death has put his inevitable seal, what an anguishis that! But our living friends may, ere we know, pass from us; wemay be to-day talking with those whose names to-morrow are to bewritten among the dead; the familiar household object of to-day maybecome sacred relics to-morrow. Let us walk softly; let us forbearand love; none ever repented of too much love to a departed friend;none ever regretted too much tenderness and indulgence, but many atear has been shed for too much harshness and severity. Let ourfriends in heaven then teach us how to treat our friends on earth.Thus by no vain fruitless sorrow, but by a deeper self-knowledge, atenderer and more sacred estimate of life, may our heavenly friendsprove to us ministering spirits.
The triumphant apostle says to the Christian, "All things areyours--Life and Death." Let us not lose either; let us make Deathour own; in a richer, deeper, and more solemn earnestness of life.So those souls which have gone from our ark, and seemed lost overthe gloomy ocean of the unknown, shall return to us, bearing theolive-leaves of Paradise.
THE END.
* * * * * * * * * * * *