Afghanistan and the Anglo-Russian Dispute | Page 6

forefathers, at a
distance of only a mile from Clawbonny. That funeral service, too,
made a deep impression on my memory. We had some Church of
England people in the valley; and old Miles Wallingford, the first of the
name, a substantial English franklin, had been influenced in his choice
of a purchase by the fact that one of Queen Anne's churches stood so
near the farm. To that little church, a tiny edifice of stone, with a high,
pointed roof, without steeple, bell, or vestry-room, had three
generations of us been taken to be christened, and three, including my
father, had been taken to be buried. Excellent, kind-hearted,
just-minded Mr. Hardinge read the funeral service over the man whom
his own father had, in the same humble edifice, christened. Our
neighbourhood has much altered of late years; but, then, few higher
than mere labourers dwelt among us, who had not some sort of
hereditary claim to be beloved. So it was with our clergyman, whose
father had been his predecessor, having actually married my
grand-parents. The son had united my father and mother, and now he
was called on to officiate at the funeral obsequies of the first. Grace and
I sobbed as if our hearts would break, the whole time we were in the
church; and my poor, sensitive, nervous little sister actually shrieked as
she heard the sound of the first clod that fell upon the coffin. Our
mother was spared that trying scene, finding it impossible to support it.

She remained at home, on her knees, most of the day on which the
funeral occurred.
Time soothed our sorrows, though my mother, a woman of more than
common sensibility, or, it were better to say of uncommon affections,
never entirely recovered from the effects of her irreparable loss. She
had loved too well, too devotedly, too engrossingly, ever to think of a
second marriage, and lived only to care for the interests of Miles
Wallingford's children. I firmly believe we were more beloved because
we stood in this relation to the deceased, than because we were her own
natural offspring. Her health became gradually undermined, and, three
years after the accident of the mill, Mr. Hardinge laid her at my father's
side. I was now sixteen, and can better describe what passed during the
last days of her existence, than what took place at the death of her
husband. Grace and I were apprised of what was so likely to occur,
quite a month before the fatal moment arrived; and we were not so
much overwhelmed with sudden grief as we had been on the first great
occasion of family sorrow, though we both felt our loss keenly, and my
sister, I think I may almost say, inextinguishably. Mr. Hardinge had us
both brought to the bed-side, to listen to the parting advice of our dying
parent, and to be impressed with a scene that is always healthful, if
rightly improved. "You baptized these two dear children, good Mr.
Hardinge," she said, in a voice that was already enfeebled by physical
decay, "and you signed them with the sign of the cross, in token of
Christ's death for them; and I now ask of your friendship and pastoral
care to see that they are not neglected at the most critical period of their
lives--that when impressions are the deepest, and yet the most easily
made. God will reward all your kindness to the orphan children of your
friends." The excellent divine, a man who lived more for others than for
himself, made the required promises, and the soul of my mother took
its flight in peace.
Neither my sister nor myself grieved as deeply for the loss of this last
of our parents, as we did for that of the first. We had both seen so many
instances of her devout goodness, had been witnesses of so great a
triumph of her faith as to feel an intimate, though silent, persuasion that
her death was merely a passage to a better state of existence--that it

seemed selfish to regret. Still, we wept and mourned, even while, in
one sense, I think we rejoiced. She was relieved from, much bodily
suffering, and I remember, when I went to take a last look at her
beloved face, that I gazed on its calm serenity with a feeling akin to
exultation, as I recollected that pain could no longer exercise dominion
over her frame, and that her spirit was then dwelling in bliss. Bitter
regrets came later, it is true, and these were fully shared--nay, more
than shared--by Grace.
After the death of my father, I had never bethought me of the manner in
which he had disposed of his property. I heard something said of his
will, and gleaned a