Consumption.
The whirlwind in its fury depopulates a district, or a small tract of
land over which it passes perhaps once in a century--the earthquake
rumbles through the hidden recesses of the earth, and here and there
the yawning cavern swallows the ill-fated inhabitants that dwell upon
its surface; the lightning's stroke blasts in a moment, and cuts the
threads of life without any warning; and the steam engine destroy
their thousands in a year; and the winds and the waves conspire to
people the dark caves of ocean with the dead. These, and a thousand
other avenues, lead to death, bearing terror in their course, and
heralding their approach by terrific sounds.
But there is an insiduous foe, silent in its progress, sapping first
the secret springs of life, but yet diffusing hopefulness, ever
whispering in syren voice, of coming health and happiness, often
adding a deeper crimson to the cheek and a brighter lustre to the eye.
It feeds alike on all; the infant in its innocence; childhood in its
playfulness; youth in its beauty; manhood in his usefulness, and old
age in its decrepitude. All, all fall alike before the withering
breath of consumption.
Glancing back through the long avenue of past years, many a green
mound rises by the pathway over the wasted victims of this fearful
disease.
First upon memory's list, comes up a smiling infant, of rare beauty
and patient mien, that won our love by those little winning ways that
are the prerogatives of that tender age. A slight cough and extreme
weakness, were the only indications of the fearful work that was
progressing within. A bright flush rested upon the lily cheek, and
none who looked upon the unwonted brilliancy of those eyes ever could
forget their lustre. The pure spirit seemed to look forth from their
azure depths. A moan seldom escaped her lips, but she would lay quiet
in her little cradle, looking out unmoved upon the business and stir
of that life, upon which she had so briefly entered, but where she was
to bear so small a part in its fluctuations and concerns.
Anxiously did the fond mother watch over her precious one, and
endeavor by a thousand attentions, to strengthen the feeble tenure
that held her to life. She was the darling, the youngest one of a
numerous family, and all the purest affections of many fond hearts
were offered at her shrine.
But could this bribe death? O no, the destroyer stayed not in his
course, but drew stealthily along, and aimed his dart secretly but
surely, at his victim.
It was a chilly day in early spring; vegetation was just arousing from
winter's sleep, and the spring blossoms were just beginning to peep
from their casing of green, when this little bud of beauty perished
from earth. She lay in the cradle usually, because it wearied her to
be held in the lap.
It was noon, when the mother bent over her to administer some
nourishment, and thought she perceived a change upon her countenance.
The same glad smile rested upon her features, but it was more heavenly
in its expression. She seated herself by the cradle, and raised her
affectionately in her arms, saying as she did so,
"My dear child, I shall not lay you down again till you look better."
She looked at her a few moments, her blue orbs were turned to heaven,
and by their earnest gaze seemed penetrating the glories of the upper
world.
There was soon an effort to vomit, succeeded by the fearful death
rattle that comes but once in human life. It was the struggle that
must come to all, sooner or later. The angel of death was leading this
feeble infant through the valley of the shadow of death, by a gentle
hand; one little struggle, one gentle sigh, one little quiver of the
lip, and the sinless spirit had departed ere the father and brothers,
who had been hastily summoned, reached her side.
Beautiful beyond description was the touch of death as it lingered
upon that marble brow, and rested upon the beautifully chiselled
features of the dear babe.
She was arrayed in a simple white robe, and laid into her cradle,
while a sorrowing angel hovered over the household. An absent son
returned who had been teaching several miles distant, and among other
gifts were some for the little one, but those little eyes were closed,
and those little hands that used to be raised with so much fondness,
were now stiff and cold in death; but how lovely! Her grave was made
in the headland of the garden; a tall lilac stood upon one side of
it, and a fragrant rose bush stood upon the other No stone marked the
spot, but will she be forgotten on the morning of the resurrection?
Years passed on, many silent years, for we heard no sounds to tell us
that time was threading the mazy thoroughfares of human life, stealing
noiselessly through our dwellings, and pressing his way with us to the
ocean of eternity, hastening on to the period when he shall come to an
end, and the great angel shall swear there shall be time no longer.
But so it was; years had been borne away by his rapid flight, and laid
side by side with those that passed before the flood, and change had
come.
Many voices that lisped their matin and their vesper hymns by one
hearth stone, were now scattered far and wide, and other homes had
sprung up, and the children had become parents, and new duties
devolved upon them. Some had passed the meridian of life, the sun of
some had reached their noon, while others were climbing up the eastern
summit. But as yet death had spared that numerous, household; but now
he was watching for his prey. A son who had reached the meridian of
life, with fair prospects and an unblemished reputation, was selected.
He had consecrated himself to God, had put on Christ by baptism, and
well did he adorn his profession, living a consistent Christian life.
But death marked him for his victim.
It were needless now to tell of all the secret underminings of life's
hidden springs. He was cheerfully, hopefully looking forward to a long
life of usefulness, and striving to attain to greater proficiency in
his profession, for he was a physician. But the strength of manhood,
integrity of principle, nor Christian virtue could shield him from the
stealthy foe that was infusing its poison through the secret avenues
of life.
Strength declined, the cough increased, night sweats came on, and
one occupation after another had to be relinquished, till he was a
confirmed invalid, and when he became next convinced that he must die,
the business of his remaining time upon earth was to make preparation
for that event.
His countenance ever wore a smile, and he conversed cheerfully with
his friends.
He sold his place, which was one he had desired for many years,
and which he had recently purchased, anticipating a long life of
usefulness in the bosom of his family, which consisted of his wife and
one son. But he cheerfully resigned it, and settled all his business
as far as was in his power, made the best possible provision for his
wife and son, and retired with them to her paternal home to prepare
the inner man for the great change that was before him.
His mind was relieved from earthly cares, every thing being arranged
as he desired, and he used to say,
"I have 'set my house in order,' and have nothing to do but die."
The things of eternity occupied his entire thoughts; he seldom spoke
of his sufferings as being great, but expressed thankfulness that he
was passing so easily away. But it appeared different to his friends
that looked upon him. He could lay only upon one side for several
months before he died, and he had painful ulcers upon several parts of
the body, and a constant cough, with laborious breathing and profuse
night sweats, accompanied by great emaciation. These were the most
prominent features in the fearful disease.
But he would allow no one to remain with him during the night,
affirming it was unnecessary for any one to be disturbed, thus
spending his restless, weary nights in communion with his Saviour and
his God.
He made all the arrangements for his funeral, telling his friends not
to weep for him. He hoped as his usefulness on earth was so soon to
end, his death might be sanctified so as to be the means of inducing
his unconverted friends to seek that preparation of heart that is
necessary for entrance into a better life.
He told his wife the manner in which he should probably die, and
endeavored to prepare her mind for it. He had distressing turns of
suffocation, so that they were obliged to open all the windows and
doors for the benefit of the air, and he long expected every turn
would be the last.
A few days before his death, his aged mother and a sister visited
him. He conversed with them cheerfully upon the arrangements of his
funeral; told them he was ready to be offered, and should meet the
appointment as cheerfully as ever he met any in his life. He consulted
them about the propriety of the hour of the funeral, and some other
things in connection with the coming event, as he would were he making
preparations for a journey. When the aged mother pressed the hand of
her son for the last time on earth, she said with a smile,
"I can only wish the presence of your Saviour, to go with you, and
lighten the 'dark valley of the shadow of death.'"
He looked fondly in her face, while a smile of ineffable sweetness
beamed upon his countenance. "You could not wish me a better wish,
mother."
"I shall soon follow you, my son; I do not think I shall live the winter
out," said the mother, as she unclasped her hand from the son's, that
she had taken, for the last time.
That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward
paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and
smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was
withdrawn upon the brink of the grave--it could not assist, could not
support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.
It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to
beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank
the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early
symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading
leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly
things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be
possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."
He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite
for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a
sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his
wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his
medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and
after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He
started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking
to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to
relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops
upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and
shut out the light of earth forever. He stretched out one hand and
placed it upon the head of his son, who came hurriedly to his bedside,
crying out, in piteous accents,
"O, father, father," and stood sobbing beside him.
This was his only recognition of any one. But the struggle was soon
over, and the spirit had burst the barriers that held it to its clay
tenement and passed away to a brighter world.
His sun set at noon; but his memory has left a sweet fragrance behind
it, grateful to the surviving friends, who are called upon to follow
his pious example.
He was borne to the Cemetery, and buried in a spot, which he had
selected a few weeks before, in company with his aged mother, by a
long train of weeping friends, for he had been very dear to us, and
nature would have her tribute, and it filled our hearts with sadness,
when we realized that we should see that loved form on earth no more.
Yet we rejoiced that he had died in the glorious hope of a blessed
immortality, and that we could say, in the impressive language of
the text that was chosen for his funeral sermon, "Our friend Lazarus
sleepeth." Sweet be thy sleep, dear brother, during the night of
death; but the morning will come--the glorious morning of the
resurrection--and unlock the portals of the tomb, and the dead shall
come forth, the righteous clothed in eternal youth, shall never die,
the wicked sinking into the second death that has no end.
Sober autumn perfected his work of decay, and dreary winter spread his
snowy shroud over the barren globe, when the aged mother laid down
upon the bed of death. Her infant had passed away, in the very dawn
of its existence. Her son had sunk down, while his meridian sun was
shining in its noonday splendor; but she had lived till the winter of
life had scattered its snows upon her head, and was now falling, like
a shock of corn, fully ripe. She was ready to be bidden suddenly
away, for she was ever watching for the coming of the bridegroom.
Consumption had long been preying upon her form, and paving her way to
the tomb; but she could look calmly upon the prospect, and contemplate
the struggle of death without shrinking from it.
She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus,
and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling
incidents of her life. She ever looked upon the fashions of this world
as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the
world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to
imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements. In profession of
her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age
of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon
a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with
his precious blood. She offered up her children upon the altar of her
heart's purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them
publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important
duty of a Christian mother.
Many an adverse wind had she encountered--that weary voyager on life's
troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about
to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous
waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, "Peace, be
still."
She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but
every word breathed of faith and hope. On the afternoon before her
death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their
import:
"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there."
She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see
them before her death. She expressed anxiety for her aged companion,
to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously
sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon
drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.
During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit
seemed struggling to depart.
She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two
to her attendants, saying to one,
"You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?"
She repeated, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not
so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."
She lingered till about ten o'clock in the fore-noon, then calling for
the absent members of the family, she desired to be raised up. Her son
supported her in his arms, the feeble lamp of life flickered a moment
in its socket, there was a little struggle, and that pure breast lay
free from the care or burden of life. Those loving eyes had looked
their last upon her dear children, that stood weeping by her bedside,
and the toil worn hands were laid cold and pulseless upon her peaceful
bosom, and she was now at rest with her Saviour, "in the house of many
mansions." Those dear hands that had been so active, administering to
the
land over which it passes perhaps once in a century--the earthquake
rumbles through the hidden recesses of the earth, and here and there
the yawning cavern swallows the ill-fated inhabitants that dwell upon
its surface; the lightning's stroke blasts in a moment, and cuts the
threads of life without any warning; and the steam engine destroy
their thousands in a year; and the winds and the waves conspire to
people the dark caves of ocean with the dead. These, and a thousand
other avenues, lead to death, bearing terror in their course, and
heralding their approach by terrific sounds.
But there is an insiduous foe, silent in its progress, sapping first
the secret springs of life, but yet diffusing hopefulness, ever
whispering in syren voice, of coming health and happiness, often
adding a deeper crimson to the cheek and a brighter lustre to the eye.
It feeds alike on all; the infant in its innocence; childhood in its
playfulness; youth in its beauty; manhood in his usefulness, and old
age in its decrepitude. All, all fall alike before the withering
breath of consumption.
Glancing back through the long avenue of past years, many a green
mound rises by the pathway over the wasted victims of this fearful
disease.
First upon memory's list, comes up a smiling infant, of rare beauty
and patient mien, that won our love by those little winning ways that
are the prerogatives of that tender age. A slight cough and extreme
weakness, were the only indications of the fearful work that was
progressing within. A bright flush rested upon the lily cheek, and
none who looked upon the unwonted brilliancy of those eyes ever could
forget their lustre. The pure spirit seemed to look forth from their
azure depths. A moan seldom escaped her lips, but she would lay quiet
in her little cradle, looking out unmoved upon the business and stir
of that life, upon which she had so briefly entered, but where she was
to bear so small a part in its fluctuations and concerns.
Anxiously did the fond mother watch over her precious one, and
endeavor by a thousand attentions, to strengthen the feeble tenure
that held her to life. She was the darling, the youngest one of a
numerous family, and all the purest affections of many fond hearts
were offered at her shrine.
But could this bribe death? O no, the destroyer stayed not in his
course, but drew stealthily along, and aimed his dart secretly but
surely, at his victim.
It was a chilly day in early spring; vegetation was just arousing from
winter's sleep, and the spring blossoms were just beginning to peep
from their casing of green, when this little bud of beauty perished
from earth. She lay in the cradle usually, because it wearied her to
be held in the lap.
It was noon, when the mother bent over her to administer some
nourishment, and thought she perceived a change upon her countenance.
The same glad smile rested upon her features, but it was more heavenly
in its expression. She seated herself by the cradle, and raised her
affectionately in her arms, saying as she did so,
"My dear child, I shall not lay you down again till you look better."
She looked at her a few moments, her blue orbs were turned to heaven,
and by their earnest gaze seemed penetrating the glories of the upper
world.
There was soon an effort to vomit, succeeded by the fearful death
rattle that comes but once in human life. It was the struggle that
must come to all, sooner or later. The angel of death was leading this
feeble infant through the valley of the shadow of death, by a gentle
hand; one little struggle, one gentle sigh, one little quiver of the
lip, and the sinless spirit had departed ere the father and brothers,
who had been hastily summoned, reached her side.
Beautiful beyond description was the touch of death as it lingered
upon that marble brow, and rested upon the beautifully chiselled
features of the dear babe.
She was arrayed in a simple white robe, and laid into her cradle,
while a sorrowing angel hovered over the household. An absent son
returned who had been teaching several miles distant, and among other
gifts were some for the little one, but those little eyes were closed,
and those little hands that used to be raised with so much fondness,
were now stiff and cold in death; but how lovely! Her grave was made
in the headland of the garden; a tall lilac stood upon one side of
it, and a fragrant rose bush stood upon the other No stone marked the
spot, but will she be forgotten on the morning of the resurrection?
Years passed on, many silent years, for we heard no sounds to tell us
that time was threading the mazy thoroughfares of human life, stealing
noiselessly through our dwellings, and pressing his way with us to the
ocean of eternity, hastening on to the period when he shall come to an
end, and the great angel shall swear there shall be time no longer.
But so it was; years had been borne away by his rapid flight, and laid
side by side with those that passed before the flood, and change had
come.
Many voices that lisped their matin and their vesper hymns by one
hearth stone, were now scattered far and wide, and other homes had
sprung up, and the children had become parents, and new duties
devolved upon them. Some had passed the meridian of life, the sun of
some had reached their noon, while others were climbing up the eastern
summit. But as yet death had spared that numerous, household; but now
he was watching for his prey. A son who had reached the meridian of
life, with fair prospects and an unblemished reputation, was selected.
He had consecrated himself to God, had put on Christ by baptism, and
well did he adorn his profession, living a consistent Christian life.
But death marked him for his victim.
It were needless now to tell of all the secret underminings of life's
hidden springs. He was cheerfully, hopefully looking forward to a long
life of usefulness, and striving to attain to greater proficiency in
his profession, for he was a physician. But the strength of manhood,
integrity of principle, nor Christian virtue could shield him from the
stealthy foe that was infusing its poison through the secret avenues
of life.
Strength declined, the cough increased, night sweats came on, and
one occupation after another had to be relinquished, till he was a
confirmed invalid, and when he became next convinced that he must die,
the business of his remaining time upon earth was to make preparation
for that event.
His countenance ever wore a smile, and he conversed cheerfully with
his friends.
He sold his place, which was one he had desired for many years,
and which he had recently purchased, anticipating a long life of
usefulness in the bosom of his family, which consisted of his wife and
one son. But he cheerfully resigned it, and settled all his business
as far as was in his power, made the best possible provision for his
wife and son, and retired with them to her paternal home to prepare
the inner man for the great change that was before him.
His mind was relieved from earthly cares, every thing being arranged
as he desired, and he used to say,
"I have 'set my house in order,' and have nothing to do but die."
The things of eternity occupied his entire thoughts; he seldom spoke
of his sufferings as being great, but expressed thankfulness that he
was passing so easily away. But it appeared different to his friends
that looked upon him. He could lay only upon one side for several
months before he died, and he had painful ulcers upon several parts of
the body, and a constant cough, with laborious breathing and profuse
night sweats, accompanied by great emaciation. These were the most
prominent features in the fearful disease.
But he would allow no one to remain with him during the night,
affirming it was unnecessary for any one to be disturbed, thus
spending his restless, weary nights in communion with his Saviour and
his God.
He made all the arrangements for his funeral, telling his friends not
to weep for him. He hoped as his usefulness on earth was so soon to
end, his death might be sanctified so as to be the means of inducing
his unconverted friends to seek that preparation of heart that is
necessary for entrance into a better life.
He told his wife the manner in which he should probably die, and
endeavored to prepare her mind for it. He had distressing turns of
suffocation, so that they were obliged to open all the windows and
doors for the benefit of the air, and he long expected every turn
would be the last.
A few days before his death, his aged mother and a sister visited
him. He conversed with them cheerfully upon the arrangements of his
funeral; told them he was ready to be offered, and should meet the
appointment as cheerfully as ever he met any in his life. He consulted
them about the propriety of the hour of the funeral, and some other
things in connection with the coming event, as he would were he making
preparations for a journey. When the aged mother pressed the hand of
her son for the last time on earth, she said with a smile,
"I can only wish the presence of your Saviour, to go with you, and
lighten the 'dark valley of the shadow of death.'"
He looked fondly in her face, while a smile of ineffable sweetness
beamed upon his countenance. "You could not wish me a better wish,
mother."
"I shall soon follow you, my son; I do not think I shall live the winter
out," said the mother, as she unclasped her hand from the son's, that
she had taken, for the last time.
That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward
paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and
smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was
withdrawn upon the brink of the grave--it could not assist, could not
support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.
It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to
beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank
the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early
symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading
leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly
things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be
possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."
He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite
for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a
sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his
wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his
medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and
after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He
started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking
to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to
relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops
upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and
shut out the light of earth forever. He stretched out one hand and
placed it upon the head of his son, who came hurriedly to his bedside,
crying out, in piteous accents,
"O, father, father," and stood sobbing beside him.
This was his only recognition of any one. But the struggle was soon
over, and the spirit had burst the barriers that held it to its clay
tenement and passed away to a brighter world.
His sun set at noon; but his memory has left a sweet fragrance behind
it, grateful to the surviving friends, who are called upon to follow
his pious example.
He was borne to the Cemetery, and buried in a spot, which he had
selected a few weeks before, in company with his aged mother, by a
long train of weeping friends, for he had been very dear to us, and
nature would have her tribute, and it filled our hearts with sadness,
when we realized that we should see that loved form on earth no more.
Yet we rejoiced that he had died in the glorious hope of a blessed
immortality, and that we could say, in the impressive language of
the text that was chosen for his funeral sermon, "Our friend Lazarus
sleepeth." Sweet be thy sleep, dear brother, during the night of
death; but the morning will come--the glorious morning of the
resurrection--and unlock the portals of the tomb, and the dead shall
come forth, the righteous clothed in eternal youth, shall never die,
the wicked sinking into the second death that has no end.
Sober autumn perfected his work of decay, and dreary winter spread his
snowy shroud over the barren globe, when the aged mother laid down
upon the bed of death. Her infant had passed away, in the very dawn
of its existence. Her son had sunk down, while his meridian sun was
shining in its noonday splendor; but she had lived till the winter of
life had scattered its snows upon her head, and was now falling, like
a shock of corn, fully ripe. She was ready to be bidden suddenly
away, for she was ever watching for the coming of the bridegroom.
Consumption had long been preying upon her form, and paving her way to
the tomb; but she could look calmly upon the prospect, and contemplate
the struggle of death without shrinking from it.
She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus,
and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling
incidents of her life. She ever looked upon the fashions of this world
as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the
world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to
imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements. In profession of
her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age
of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon
a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with
his precious blood. She offered up her children upon the altar of her
heart's purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them
publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important
duty of a Christian mother.
Many an adverse wind had she encountered--that weary voyager on life's
troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about
to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous
waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, "Peace, be
still."
She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but
every word breathed of faith and hope. On the afternoon before her
death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their
import:
"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there."
She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see
them before her death. She expressed anxiety for her aged companion,
to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously
sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon
drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.
During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit
seemed struggling to depart.
She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two
to her attendants, saying to one,
"You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?"
She repeated, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not
so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."
She lingered till about ten o'clock in the fore-noon, then calling for
the absent members of the family, she desired to be raised up. Her son
supported her in his arms, the feeble lamp of life flickered a moment
in its socket, there was a little struggle, and that pure breast lay
free from the care or burden of life. Those loving eyes had looked
their last upon her dear children, that stood weeping by her bedside,
and the toil worn hands were laid cold and pulseless upon her peaceful
bosom, and she was now at rest with her Saviour, "in the house of many
mansions." Those dear hands that had been so active, administering to
the
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