Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing | Page 8

of his children so poor, as to be
without an influence. The humblest effort, if it is all that can be made,
is as full of greatness at the core, as the most ostentatious display.

THE DEAD.

IT is strange what a change is wrought in one hour by death. The

moment our friend is gone from us for ever, what sacredness invests
him! Everything he ever said or did seems to return to us clothed in
new significance. A thousand yearnings rise, of things we would fain
say to him--of questions unanswered, and now unanswerable. All he
wore or touched, or looked upon familiarly, becomes sacred as relics.
Yesterday these were homely articles, to be tossed to and fro, handled
lightly, given away thoughtlessly--to-day we touch them softly, our
tears drop on them; death has laid his hand on them, and they have
become holy in our eyes. Those are sad hours when one has passed
from our doors never to return, and we go back to set the place in order.
There the room, so familiar, the homely belongings of their daily life,
each one seems to say to us in its turn, "Neither shall their place know
them any more." Clear the shelf now of vials and cups, and
prescriptions; open the windows; step no more carefully; there is no
one now to be cared for--no one to be nursed--no one to be awakened.
Ah! why does this bring a secret pang with it when we know that they
are where none shall any more say, "I am sick!" Could only one flutter
of their immortal garments be visible in such moments; could their face,
glorious with the light of heaven, once smile on the deserted room, it
might be better. One needs to lose friends to understand one's self truly.
The death of a friend teaches things within that we never knew before.
We may have expected it, prepared for it, it may have been hourly
expected for weeks; yet when it comes, it falls on us suddenly, and
reveals in us emotions we could not dream. The opening of those
heavenly gate for them startles and flutters our souls with strange
mysterious thrills, unfelt before. The glimpse of glories, the sweep of
voices, all startle and dazzle us, and the soul for many a day aches and
longs with untold longings.
We divide among ourselves the possessions of our lost ones. Each
well-known thing comes to us with an almost supernatural power. The
book we once read with them, the old Bible, the familiar hymn; then
perhaps little pet articles of fancy, made dear to them by some peculiar
taste, the picture, the vase!--how costly are they now in our eyes.
We value them not for their beauty or worth, but for the frequency with
which we have seen them touched or used by them; and our eye runs
over the collection, and perhaps lights most lovingly on the homeliest
thing which may have been oftenest touched or worn by them.

It is a touching ceremony to divide among a circle of friends the
memorials of the lost. Each one comes inscribed--"_no more_;" and yet
each one, too, is a pledge of reunion. But there are invisible relics 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 our hearts the patience
which they will never need again; the fortitude in suffering which
belonged only to this suffering state. Let us take from their dying hand
that submission under affliction which they shall need no more in a
world where affliction is unknown. Let us collect in our thoughts all
those cheerful and hopeful sayings which they threw out from time to
time as they walked with us, and string them as a rosary to be daily
counted over. Let us test our own daily life by what must be their now
perfected estimate; and as they 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 the living.
It is a fearful thing to live so carelessly as we often do with 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 be lived over in memory
over some future grave. One remarks that the death of a child often
makes parents tender and indulgent! Ah, it is a lesson learned of bitter
sorrow! If we would know how to measure our work to living friends,
let us see how we feel towards the dead. If we have been neglectful, if
we have spoken hasty and