b'\'-; \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY; \n\n\n\nHAPPY TALK \n\n\n\nTOWARDS THE END OF LIFE. \n\n\n\nBy WILLIAM MOUNTFORD, \n\nAUTHOR OF \' \xe2\x80\xa2 MARTYRIA, " "CHRISTIANITY THE DELIVERANCE OF THE \nSOUL AND ITS LIFE," &C, &C. \n\n\n\nSECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. \n\n\n\nBOSTON : \n\nWM. CROSBY AND H. P. NICHOLS, \n\n111 Washington Street. \n\n1850. \n\n\n\nMa \n\n\\S50 \n\n\n\nEntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S50. by \n\nVvu. Crosby and H. P. Nichols, \n\nin the Clerk\'s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts \n\n\n\n<3H2*g? \n\n\n\nCAMBRIDGE: \n\nSTEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY \n\nMETCALF ASD COIPAJT, \n\nPRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. \n\n\n\nPREFACE, \n\n\n\nThis is not meant to be a work for the \nconversion of- persons who do not believe \nin a world to come, but rather it is in- \ntended to originate in the reader that at- \nmosphere of thought in which faith can \nlive. \n\nThere are pious men who find their faith \nfailing them in some strange way, which \nthey cannot account for. They are serious \npersons ; they live honorably and righteous- \nly ; they keep all the commandments ; their \npath is that of the just ; and yet some- \nhow to their eyes it shines less and less, \nand evermore it gets darker and darker, as \nthough unto perfect night. \n\n\n\nIV PREFACE. \n\n\n\nThere are Christians who worship ov* \nof the same book of prayers which their \nfathers used; who keep the same solemn \nseasons of humiliation and joy which they \nwondered at as children ; and who repeat \nthe same creeds which they learned in their \nyouth. And yet, in the anguish of their \nsouls, they say every Sabbath, more and \nmore bitterly, " Lord, I believe more and \nmore feebly ; help thou mine unbelief." \n\nThere are men who are now of little \nfaith, and yet who once believed them- \nselves to be in a state of grace. They sing \nthe same hymns they used to, but not with \ntheir old fervor. Their seasons of religious \njoy are rarer and shorter than they used \nto be. And their belief in immortality is \nbecoming only a fitful persuasion, a Sun- \nday feeling, a transient mood. \n\nThe world is another world than what \nthese persons first learned to be pious in. \n\n\n\nPREFACE. V \n\nThere are men who cannot read a sci- \nentific work, or peruse history as it is com- \nmonly written, or acquaint themselves with \nmodern literature in some of its more pop- \nular volumes, or feel what the spirit of the \nage is, without being conscious of a weak- \nening of their faith. \n\nCertainly there are some few men as pure \nin heart as most saints have been, who long \nto see, and yet cannot see, in the world \nthat now is, any signs of there being a world \nwhich is to come. They would be will- \ning to sell all that they have and give to \nthe poor, if they could be told of a way, \nby following which they could find them- \nselves within hearing of Christ, and per- \nsuaded of there being treasure possible for \nthem in heaven. * \n\nThis present age is an epoch in the Chris- \ntian Church ; \xe2\x80\x94 very important, and perhaps \nwhat may yet be very sad. \n\n\n\nVI PREFACE. \n\n\n\nThe purpose of this book is to aid per- \nsons to discern the religiousness of life, and \nto suggest to them that Christian faith can- \nnot only live, but strengthen, in the world \nas it now is, though it is becoming light \nwith science, and is altered in many a do- \nmain of thought, and has sounding in it \nvoices which ought to be religious, but which \nunfortunately are not. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nPAGE \n\nOn Old Age \xe2\x80\x94 The State of Religion. \xe2\x80\x94 On Affliction 1 \n\nCHAPTER IT. \n\nTrust in the Mysteriousness of Life . . . . 19 \n\nCHAPTER ni. \n\nThe Hopefulness of Spring-time. \xe2\x80\x94 The Death of Birds \nand Flowers. \xe2\x80\x94 On. Prayer. \xe2\x80\x94 The Hope of Immor- \ntality 28 \n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nThe Dread of becoming afraid of Death. \xe2\x80\x94 Death as Nat- \nural as Life 37 \n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nOn Faith in a Future Life, and how to increase it . 47 \n\nCHAPTER VI. \nOn Resignation 57 \n\n\n\nV1U CONTENTS. \n\nCHAPTER VII. \nA Dream 62 \n\nCHAPTER Vm. \n\nOn living in the Thought of Mortality. \xe2\x80\x94 Death a New \nBirth 70 \n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nOn some Unfinished "Works of Genius . . . 77 \n\nCHAPTER X. \nOn Despondency 90 \n\nCHAPTER XT. \nThe Soul consciously immortal 95 \n\nCHAPTER XH. \n\nRecollections and Thoughts on a Birthday . . . 101 \n\nchapter xrn. \n\nDeath to be waited for in Eaith 118 \n\nCHAPTER XIV. \n\nOn Remembrances of Youth, Pain, Pleasure, and Depart- \ned Friends. \xe2\x80\x94 On Old Age. \xe2\x80\x94 Anticipations of Heaven. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Listening to the Past 122 \n\nCHAPTER XV. \n\nMisfortune a Test of Character. \xe2\x80\x94 Uses of Old Age . 135 \n\nCHAPTER XVI. \nA Sermon . . . 143 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. IX \n\nCHAPTER XVII. \nOn Poverty. \xe2\x80\x94 Posthumous Influence. \xe2\x80\x94 Life after Death 164 \n\nCHAPTER XVIII. \n\nOn Knowledge of Human Nature. \xe2\x80\x94 Shakspeare. \xe2\x80\x94 Ever- \nlastingness of Truth. \xe2\x80\x94 Heirship of the Past . . 176 \n\nCHAPTER XIX. \n\nOn Flowers and on Beauty. \xe2\x80\x94 York Minster. \xe2\x80\x94 God in \nNature. \xe2\x80\x94 The Witness of the Spirit. \xe2\x80\x94 The Feeling of \nInfinity 195 \n\nCHAPTER XX. \n\nThe Swiftness of Time. \xe2\x80\x94 On Heaven. \xe2\x80\x94 The Vastness \nof the Universe. \xe2\x80\x94 Knowledge proportioned to Duty. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe Wisdom of Humility. \xe2\x80\x94 The Will of God. \xe2\x80\x94 On \n\nI George Herbert 209 \n\nCHAPTER XXI. \nThe Uncertainty of Life 226 \n\nCHAPTER XXII. \nOn the Feeling of Beauty 229 \n\nCHAPTER XXni. \n\nPlotinus. \xe2\x80\x94 George Fox. \xe2\x80\x94 Henry More. \xe2\x80\x94 The Song of \nthe Soul. \xe2\x80\x94 Gratitude to Great Authors . . . 240 \n\nCHAPTER XXIV. \n\nHuman Greatness. \xe2\x80\x94 Humility. \xe2\x80\x94 God in the Soul. \xe2\x80\x94 Na- \nture and the Soul. \xe2\x80\x94 Faith in Christ. \xe2\x80\x94 Religious Mel- \nancholy 262 \n\n\n\nX CONTENTS. \n\nCHAPTER XXV. \n\nThe World full of Promise. \xe2\x80\x94 Man made for Happiness. \n\xe2\x80\x94 On Sympathy with Others. \xe2\x80\x94 What Heaven will be 281 \n\nCHAPTER XXVI. \n\nOne Spirit in Men. \xe2\x80\x94 One Meaning of Heroic Lives. \xe2\x80\x94 \nOn Art. \xe2\x80\x94 On Civilized Life. \xe2\x80\x94 The Human Hand. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe Present Life suggestive of the Next . . .291 \n\nCHAPTER XXVII. \n\nOn Action. \xe2\x80\x94 The Way of Providence in Life . . 307 \n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. \n\nOn Creation. \xe2\x80\x94 The Law of Progression. \xe2\x80\x94 Man the In- \nfinity of God\'s Purpose in the World . . .317 \n\nCHAPTER XXIX. \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \nThe End of Summer. \xe2\x80\x94 Perfect Love. \xe2\x80\x94 Hope of Immor- \ntality. \xe2\x80\x94 On Spiritual Longing .... 332 \n\nCHAPTER XXX. \n\nDying daily. \xe2\x80\x94 Changes of Eeeling. \xe2\x80\x94 Old Age. \xe2\x80\x94 On \nAffliction 342 \n\nCHAPTER XXXI. \n\nPatience. \xe2\x80\x94 Readiness for Heaven. \xe2\x80\x94 Immortality . 358 \n\nCHAPTER XXXII. \n\nThe Effects of Prayer. \xe2\x80\x94 How to grow in Faith. \xe2\x80\x94 En- \ndurance and Forgiveness. \xe2\x80\x94 Righteous Failures. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nGood of Affliction. \xe2\x80\x94 On Sincerity. \xe2\x80\x94 On Troubles. \xe2\x80\x94 \nOn Music. \xe2\x80\x94 The Thought of God. \xe2\x80\x94 The Instinct of \nPrayer. \xe2\x80\x94 The Wonder of this Present Life . . 3G5 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. XI \n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. \n\nOn Embalming. \xe2\x80\x94 Right Thoughts about the Dead. \xe2\x80\x94 On \nBodily Changes. \xe2\x80\x94 Spirit its own Evidence. \xe2\x80\x94 How the \nBody lives. \xe2\x80\x94 On Burial 389 \n\nCHAPTER XXXIV. \n\nOn Epitaphs. \xe2\x80\x94 How some Men have wished to die . 398 \n\nCHAPTER XXXV. \n\nThe Last Vision of Tasso 408 \n\nCHAPTER XXXVI. \n\nNature in Autumn. \xe2\x80\x94 A City renewing its Population. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThoughts of Ancient Times. \xe2\x80\x94 Another Life in Justice \nto this. \xe2\x80\x94 The Witness of the Spirit. \xe2\x80\x94 Faith in God. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Expectation of Death . . . . . . 431 \n\nCHAPTER XXXVH. \n\nOn Nature and Man. \xe2\x80\x94 On Memory .... 449 \n\nCHAPTER XXXVIH. \n\nHuman Evanescence. \xe2\x80\x94 The Stars. \xe2\x80\x94 Mysteriousness of \nLife. \xe2\x80\x94 God in Nature 463 \n\nCHAPTER XXXIX. \n\nA Scene revisited. \xe2\x80\x94 A fine Day. \xe2\x80\x94 On Old Age . 475 \n\nCHAPTER XL. \n\nOn the Love of Life. \xe2\x80\x94 On Virtue and Vice . . 484 \n\nCHAPTER XLI. \n\nSeven Conclusions from a Week of Sad Evenings . 491 \n\n\n\nXll CONTENTS. \n\nCHAPTER XLII. \nThoughts while in Pain 494 \n\nCHAPTER XLin. \n\nThe Manifold World. \xe2\x80\x94 On Fitness for Heaven. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nRecognition of Eriends hereafter. \xe2\x80\x94 Kindred to the \nBlessed Great 501 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nA soul by force of sorrows high \n\nUplifted to the purest sky \n\nOf undisturbed humanity. \xe2\x80\x94 Wordsworth. \n\nThere never lived a mortal, who bent \nHis appetite beyond his natural sphere. \nBut starved and died. \xe2\x80\x94 Keats. \n\nMay you never \nRegret those hours which make the mind, if they \nUnmake the body ; for the sooner we \nAre fit to be all mind, the better. Blest \nIs he whose heart is the home of the great dead, \nAnd their great thoughts. \xe2\x80\x94 Bailey. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNow, Oliver, you are settled with me, to live \nwith me as long as I live myself. And that \nis your side of the fireplace, and that is your \nchair. And a comfortable room this library is ; \nis it not ? There shall be a sofa brought into it, \nand every thing else that will be for your com- \nfort shall be got. And here will we wait till our \nchange come, for many, many pleasant hours,. I \n1 \n\n\n\na EUTHANASY. \n\nhope. For me, Oliver, it is a happiness to see \nyou so resigned. And to hear you talk does me \ngood. But it is of little use my company can \nbe to you. I am old, and I am older than my \nyears, I think. I am not the man I was once. \nStill, I am not declining into second childhood \nyet, I hope. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle, you are not, and never are to be, I \nhope ; though, if you were, it would not be a \nthing to be mourned for, dear uncle, would it ? \nFor the second childhood of a saint is the early \ninfancy of a happy immortality, as we believe. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat you say does cheer me so, Oliver ! \nBut, indeed, I am often distressed at being so \nuseless in my old age. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUseless ! You are of great use, uncle Ste- \nphen, you really are. How are you useful ? By \nbeing a man that is old. Your old age is a pub- \nlic good. It is, indeed. For out of all the boys \nand girls, and young men and women of this \nneighbourhood, probably not ten, and perhaps not \neven one, will ever be as old as you. But some- \nthing of the good of old age they may all get, \nthrough sympathy with you.. No child ever lis- \ntens to your talk without having a good done it \nthat no schooling could do. When you are walk- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 3 \n\ning, no one ever opens a gate for you to pass \nthrough, and no one ever honors you with any \nkind of help, without being himself the better \nfor what he does ; for fellow-feeling with you \nripens his soul for him. At the longest, I cannot \nhave long to live ; and I shall never be old. \nBut through living with you, uncle, and loving \nyou, I hope to understand, and feel, and make \nmy own, those changes which come over the \nsoul with length of life. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhen the powers of the body fail, the feelings \ndo alter much ; and with me they grow melan- \ncholy, which, perhaps, they should not do. But \nthey are sad experiences, when sight and hearing \nand motion fail. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNot sad, uncle Stephen, but serious ; and not \nso serious as solemn. Is your eyesight dimmer ? \nThen the world is seen by you in a cathedral \nlight. Is your hearing duller ? Then it is just \nas though you were always where loud voices \nand footsteps ought not to be heard. Is your \ntemper not as merry as it was once ? Then it is \nmore solemn ; so that round you the common \natmosphere feels like that of the house of the \nLord. Yes, for twilight and silence and solem- \nnity, old age makes us like daily dwellers in the \nhouse of the Lord ; and a mortal sickness does \n\n\n\n4 EUTHANASY. \n\nthis, sometimes, as well as old age. But it is our \nown thoughts that have to supply the service, \nand our own hearts that have to make the music \ntriumphant, or else like a dirge. And the ser- \nmon is preached to us by conscience from some \ntext taken out of the book of our remembrance. \nWhile to it all, Amen has to be said by our- \nselves ; and when it is said gladly, then there \nis an echo to it in heaven, and joy among the \nangels. \n\nMAR.HAM. \n\nYou are so at home in religion, Oliver ! And \nthat is why your talk pleases me so much, I think. \nFor with most persons, it is as though they had \nforced themselves to be religious. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAt present, in men\'s minds, religion is not as \nspontaneous as poetry is ; and, indeed, is not \ngenial at all. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd in this room are books which are weary \nreading to us, but which, a hundred years ago, \nour forefathers wept over, and prayed upon, and \nthanked God for. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nWe cannot feel as they did, because we do \nnot think as they thought. Once, men thought \nthemselves to be the only creatures in a state of \nprobation ; and this little earth was fancied to be \n\n\n\nEIJTHANASY. O \n\nalmost the only spot, excepting hell, that was not \nheaven. From astronomy, we know this to have \nbeen an error. And many, very many things \nwhich our forefathers were sure of one way, in \nscience and philosophy, we are sure of otherwise. \nAnd so, under these errors, what they said and \nwrote religiously is either lower than our feel- \ning, or else beside it. But some time religion \nwill be familiar to men again, although we have \ngot among different circumstances from what our \nfathers worshipped in ; for there is religion in all \nthings, just as there is poetry, though as yet it \nis waiting to be discovered ; but when once it \nhas been found, all persons will see it at last, \nand it will be natural to them. Immortality is \nnot now believed in, commonly, in the manner \nit ought to be. The doctrine of it wants to be \nfamiliarized into feeling ; and especially, I think, \nthere want to be developed such corroborations \nof the great truth as are latent in science, his- \ntory, philosophy, and in the fresh experiences \nwhich, as human beings, we are always passing \nthrough. The Greek Gospels require to be made \nEnglish, for common use ; and for daily, homely \nfeeling, the great doctrine of immortality wants \nfamiliarizing. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou are hinting at what would be as great as a \nnew Reformation in the Church. \n\n\n\nO EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd greater, I think. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere is no chance of it, I am afraid. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere was none of Luther, till he was born. \nReligion will be natural to men again ; and he \nthat is merry will sing psalms yet. And even the \nsoul is growing, perhaps, that is to bless the world \nthis way. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd it will be soon, we will hope, and with a \nwelcome. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat will not be ; for to bless the world im- \nplies being above it, and to be above the world \nis to have few or no friends in it. For the first \nof the earnest believers that are to be, we will \nwish some likely thing, and what they will want ; \nwe will wish them courage to speak on, though \nit seem to be to the winds, and courage enough \nto think of dying in a garret at last, without being \nfrightened. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI must hope the world is better than you think \nit, Oliver. Though your experience of it has \nbeen very disheartening. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNay, dear uncle, I was not thinking of myself \nat all. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 7 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut, Oliver, I have been thinking of you, and \nwhat you had to bear. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd which I am the better for. Yes, when I \nremember what I was, I am sure of my misfor- \ntunes having been messengers to me from God ; \nfor they were so exactly suited to do for my char- \nacter what it wanted. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd perhaps the greatest grace that came to \nyou from God was willingness to know those \nmessengers. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nPoverty came to me, and she said, " I must \ndwell with thee." And while I held the door of \nmy room half open, she was hideous and ragged, \nand her voice was hoarse. But when I said to \nher, " Thou art my sister," her face looked di- \nvinely thoughtful, and there was that in her voice \nwhich went to my heart, and she was ragged no \nlonger, nor yet gay, but like the angels, whom \nGod so clothes. And through looking into her \neyes, my sight was cleared. And so I first saw \nthe majesty of duty, and that beauty in virtue \nwhich is the reflection of the countenance of God. \nFor, before this, my eyes could see only what \ncoarse worth there is in medals, and stars, and \ncrowns, and in such character as gets itself talked \n)f and apparelled in purple and fine linen. \n\n\n\nEITTHANASY. \nMARHAM. \n\n\n\nO Oliver ! \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nI was ambitious, uncle, once ; very greatly so \nI was. And from my own knowledge, I know \nthat pride is a fearful peril. I was a student, and \ntruth was my business ; but now it seems to -me \nthat I must have loved it basely, and for tha fame \nof stamping it with my own name. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHardly so, Oliver. I am sure you judge your- \nself not justly. For the love of fame is not al- \nways lust of flattery, but something not unwise \nnor unhealthy. For fame is a great thing for a \nman ; it is silence for him, when he wants to \nspeak ; it is a pulpit to preach from, more au- \nthoritative than an archbishop\'s throne ; and it is \naffectionate attention from a multitude of hearers. \nBadly ambitious I do not think you could have \nbeen. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nMy ardor was too much of a worldly fever, as \nI know by this ; that when, time after time, Dis- \nappointment stepped between me and my object, \nhe was like ice to my heart. But now I can \nembrace him as a friend ; and I do hold him as a \ndear friend ; and I bless God for his having found \nme. Though latterly I have known him by anoth- \ner than the mournful name by which he is called \non earth. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 9 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou have been afflicted, and it is a happy thing \nfor you to feel that it has been good for you. As \nhuman creatures, we have all of us to suffer, and \nto have some of our dearest plans spoiled. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd it is well ; for if we could be half suffi- \ncient to ourselves, we should soon lose the secret \nsense of dependence upon God. We build our \nplans up about us, and so we shut out the sight \nof heaven, and very soon the thought of it, and \nwe say to ourselves that we will be merry with \nthe goods we shall have stored up with us. But \nsome earthquake of Providence shakes our build- \ning, and overhead it is unroofed, and the walls of \nit give way. And then there is heaven to be \nseen again, and infinity is open round us, and the \ndews of the Divine grace can fall on us again, \nand again we feel ourselves at the mercy of God, \nto be spared from cold, and storms, and enemies. \nAnd so, among the ruins of our pride, we grow \nto be loving children of the Most High, instead \nof worldly creatures. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd you have felt that. But now you will be \nable to tell me all your experiences ; and you \nmust, whenever they come into your mind. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nFor some time I have wished to write a book \n\n\n\n10 EUTHAXAST. \n\non the immortality of the soul, and if I had been \nwell enough, I should have done it ; for I think \non that subject I could write as not many have \ndone. I have been without a friend in the world. \nAnd that is a state in which a man knows wheth- \ner he believes in God or not ; for if he does, his \nsoul craves God, in such a way as that almost \nhe is seen in the clouds, and felt in the air and in \nthe coming of thoughts into the mind. I have \nknown the want of food, and, one whole winter, \nthe want of warm clothing ; and I have known \nwhat it is to need medical help, and not to have \nit, because unable to pay for it. \n\nM ASSAM. \n\nHave you ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, I have. And in such circumstances, I \nknow that life looks quite another thing to what \nit does to a man at ease. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nPoor Oliver ! life must have looked stern to \nyou, very stern. \n\nAUSIN. \n\nFor a while it did, and then it grew sublime ; \nfor I saw God in it all. And, besides, there is \nin the soul an instinct of her having been made \nfor a foreordained end, of her having been cre- \nated for a special purpose, which only she her- \nself can answer, and not any one other out of a \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 11 \n\nhundred million other souls. So the more lonely \nI was, and the poorer, and the more the pain in \nmy forehead grew like the pressure of a crown of \nthorns, and the more I was an exception among \nmen, so much the more I was persuaded of hav- \ning a destiny of my own, and a peculiar one. \nAnd I said to myself, " What I am to be, I can \nsuffer for, and I will." So as my lot in life grew \nstrange, I had a trembling joy in it for the sake \nof what I thought must spiritually come of it. \nBut, dear uncle! those tears, \xe2\x80\x94 I cannot bear \nthem. Besides, I am happy now. And now our \nsouls, yours and mine, have found one another. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut to have suffered as you have, and been \nalone r \n\nATJBIN. \n\nLonely I never was ; indeed I was not. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFor God was with you. And I do believe he \nwas. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so were the souls of many saints, and \nheroes, and noble thinkers, \xe2\x80\x94 men of like suffer- \nings with my own. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTrue saints and true heroes. But now, Oli- \nver, tell me, were you never tempted to forego \nyour scruples, and enter \n\n\n\n12 EUTHANAST. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle, not for a moment. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIf you had flattered a little, or been less nobly \nscrupulous, your genius would have been ac- \nknowledged and well paid very soon. No doubt \nyou felt this ; and was not it ever a temptation ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMy noble boy ! And you sat down so long to \npoor food, and scanty, perhaps. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut I ate it, like the sacrament, in a high com- \nmunion of soul. For sometimes I felt as though \nthere stood about me Tasso, and others like him. \nAnd I thought of one who was so holy, that \npriests could not understand him, and who was \ntherefore so poor and unfriended, that he had not \nwhere to lay his head ; I thought of Christ in the \nwilderness, hungry and alone. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd in that way you held faithful to your con- \nvictions. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd yet, \xe2\x80\x94 am I right, Oliver ? Surely I \nmust be, for you are young still. And was not a \nhome sometimes a hope with you ? \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n13 \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so a temptation ? No, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut with such prospects as I found you with, \nyou must have been in dread of starvation, as not \nan unlikely thing for you some time. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOne while I had that, fear ; but I made an Ode \nto the Poor-house, and then I was not afraid of \npoverty any more. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat do you mean ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd I was the better man, besides. I mean, \nthat I made up my mind to die in rags and want, \nand then I was not afraid of doing so. And as \nsoon as there was nothing in this world that could \nfrighten me, at once, with ease of mind, goodness \ngrew easier with me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nEase of mind ! But I think I can guess at \nwhat you mean. God became every thing to you, \nas the world grew nothing. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut the world never did become nothing to \nme ; for always, even from the middle of a city, \nit felt great and wonderful about me ; but when \nno temporal good could come of it to me, then \nthe eternal meaning of it entered my soul freshly \n\n\n\n14 EUTHANASY. \n\nevery day. The more I felt the world was not \nmine at all, and could not be, the more blessedly \nI felt it was God\'s ; and so, another way, it was \nmine again, gloriously. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so the world was yours through not being \nyours, was it ? Your experience was like St. \nPaul\'s, \xe2\x80\x94 as having nothing, and possessing all \nthings. Have you the Ode to the Poor-house \nwhich you wrote ? I should like to see it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI have not it, uncle. You think the writing of \nit a curious cure for poverty. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut before writing it, your feeling of misery \nmust have been abating. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes. As soon as my poverty felt poetical, it \nceased to be only wretched. But always I have \nfound, that any thing bad is most bearable by \nknowing the worst of it, \xe2\x80\x94 by thinking, and feel- \ning, and living it all over. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so draining the cup of sorrow at a manly \ndraught. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMany years ago, when my mother died, I was \nin an agony of grief till I saw her body and held \nher dead hand, and then I was calmed. I sup- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 15 \n\npose the reason of it was this, that what we see \nwith our eyes is seen at once to be finite ; and \nfinite evil but serves by its endurance to quicken \ninto intensity that presentiment of infinite good \nwhich has been made instinctive in us. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTo some persons, it is a satisfaction to know \nthe worst, because it is never so bad as their \nfears ; and others, I think, like to know it, be- \ncause they are uneasy at any thing that is uncer- \ntain ; and others like to know it for other reasons, \nperhaps. \n\nAXJBIN. \n\nPerhaps so. But I would rather think that all \nthese reasons have one source, and from it I \nwould draw this truth, or, at least, some confir- \nmation of it, that the inner is the more real and \nthe intenser world. While we have only heard \nof misfortune, we only know it as though spirit- \nually ; and the unrestrained grief of the spirit, \nlike the spirit itself, partakes of the infinite. But \nas soon as with our bodily eyes we see an evil, \nwe see that it is finite, measurable, little. And \nthen against this littleness the soul measures her \nown almost infinite power of endurance. And \nfrom this comes that complacency, that almost \njoy in misfortune, which some sufferers have \nfelt, when once they have learned the worst \nof it. \n\n\n\n16 ETJTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver ! I am proud of what you are, but \nover what you have been as a sufferer I could \ncry ; and yet I think I am proud of that too, for \nyou are my sister\'s son. Oliver, you are not \nwell, you look \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, one thing I have to ask of you, and \nthat is, that you will not for a while ask me any \nthing about my past life. I can think it over on \nmy knees, and be thankful to God for it ; but \nyour pitying it is too much for me. For I have \nnot been as manful as you think, or else my cour- \nage was only just enough. For now that I am \nout of my troubles, I could cry for hours some- \ntimes, though a month ago I could have said that \nI had not had a tear in my eyes for years. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd now you are ill. O, very sorry I am \nthat, \xe2\x80\x94 that \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat I should only have been helped out of \nmy wretchedness just against my death. But bet- \nter men than I will die in worse miseries than \nmine were. \n\nMARHAM. \n\n1 do not think so, Oliver, and I should be very \nsorry to believe it. For I have never heard of \nanother instance like yours in all my life. For \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 17 \n\nopportunity to help a good man and a man of ge- \nnius is a treasure \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhich not many men are good enough to val- \nue. But this is a thing which it is better not to \nsay, even if quite true. And so I will not say it. \nFor the soul gets embittered with saying bitter \nthings. And then even good men may not find \none another out, as I ought to remember from \nthe way in which even you and I did not know \none another for so long, and never should have \ndone but for an accident, \xe2\x96\xa0 \xe2\x80\x94 no, a providential \nevent ; for so it was for me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd for me, too, Oliver. But you suffered so \nstrangely ! Why, O, why did not I know of it, \nor guess it ? And why did I let my foolish prej- \nudices, \xe2\x80\x94 foolish and worse \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, dear uncle, uncle Stephen ; do not talk so. \nBut let our not knowing one another be among \nthe strange things of the world, and they are very \nmany. Why they are allowed, we cannot tell \nalways. But they are wisely allowed, no doubt. \nWhy, why is this ? But for any of us asking \nso, there is no special answer vouchsafed. The \nwheels of the universe do not stop for us to ex- \namine their mechanism ; for if they did, there \nwould be no progress ; because, at every moment, \n2 \n\n\n\n18 E17THANASY. \n\nthe self-will of some creature or other is in col- \nlision with that Divine will which is the main- \nspring of creation. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt does my heart good, and it does my soul \ngood, to see you so happy, Oliver, and so at \npeace with the world, after having been so hardly \nused in it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt would be a shame if I were not so ; and the \nmore I have suffered, the greater shame. Be- \ncause, with a Christian, at the end of a grievous \ntrial, and when the soreness of it is abating, there \nis a strange and sublime experience. There is \nthe feeling of sorrow, and there is that of infinite \ngoodness ; and the two blend into a conscious- \nness like that of having been just about to be \nspoken to by God. And this is not a deceptive \nfeeling, though God is silent towards us all our \nlives ; for with him a thousand years are as one \nday ; and when he will justify himself to us, it \nwill not be our fleshly impatience which he will \naddress, but the calm estate of spirits everlasting \nlike himself. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 19 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nThe very spirits of a man prey upon the daily portion of bread and flesh ; \nand every meal is a rescue from one death, and lays up for another ; and \nthe clock strikes, and reckons on our portion of eternity : we form our \nwords with the breath of our nostrils, \xe2\x80\x94 we have the less to live upon for \nevery word we speak. \xe2\x80\x94 Jeremy Taylor. \n\nAll death in nature is birth, and in death appears visibly the advance- \nment of life. There is no killing principle in nature, for nature through- \nout is life ; it is not death which kills, but the higher life, which, conceal- \ned behind the other, begins to develop itself. Death and birth are but the \nstruggle of life with itself to attain a higher form. \xe2\x80\x94 J. G. Fichte. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOut of our hearts, and out of our reasons, \nmany things are said to us about our immortality ; \nbut they would not be listened to believingly, if it \nwere not for our Christian courage. Christ said, \nthat because he lives we shall live also. This is \nwhat emboldens our faith. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTwice did Christ enter this world, and twice \ndid he depart from it, and so the other world and \nthis were made to feel the nigher. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTwice, did you say, that Jesus came into this \nlife ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOnce through his mother\'s womb and his moth- \n\n\n\n20 EUTHANASY. \n\ner\'s cares, and once from withinside the grave of \nthe Arimathean. To and fro, between this and \nthe other world, Christ passed. So that to us \nbelievers this earth feels like the fore-court of \nheaven, and death like the door into eternity. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAt that door, threescore years and ten make \na loud knocking for me ; and old age is like an \nanxious waiting for the door to open. And awful \nwaiting it would be, were it not for Christ inside. \nBut for him, it would be dreadful leaving this \nknown for the unknown world. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThis known world, you say. But now, uncle, \nis it known ? No, it is not. It feels known, be- \ncause we feel foolishly. For every grain of sand \nis a mystery ; so is every daisy in summer, and \nso is every snow-flake in winter. Both upwards \nand downwards, and all round us, science and \nspeculation pass into mystery at last. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWe will say, then, that this world is little \nknown, and the other still less. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nPerhaps it is so. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, Oliver, how can you say perhaps, \nthough you were not sure ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNay, but, uncle, how can I be sure ? \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 21 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nVery easily, I should think ; as you have lived \nthirty years in this world, and into the other have \nnever had one glance. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut, dear uncle, I think I may have had. For \nI am of two worlds, matter and spirit. With \nthese gray eyes I have never known the world of \nspirit, but known it I have through certain feel- \nings, very faintly, and yet plainly, as I think. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut still, as you say, very faintly. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd very little, too, is my knowledge of this \nworld. It is not unlikely, I think, on my dying, \nthat the other world will feel as familiar to me as \nthis does. For body and breathing, table, chair, \nand house, are unfelt, and are nothing to me, while \nI am in thought ; so that when I am in spirit they \nwill not be much missed, perhaps. And then \nthere are states of mind which will be as com- \nmon to me hereafter as here, and more so ; so \nthat with them, at once, I shall be familiar. In \nprayer, the furniture of my room is forgotten, and \npraying hereafter in our Father\'s house, the fresh \nsplendor of it will be forgotten. And I shall feel \nand be what I am now at times, but more purely, \n\xe2\x80\x94 a worshipper only. And other states of mind \nthere will be, in which, at once, I shall feel as \n\n\n\n22 EUTHANASY. \n\nnative to the world of spirits as I do to this world \nof earth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nStill, death is a leaving of one world for another. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is. And life is an outliving of world after \nworld. Where is now what the world was to you \nat ten years old ? It is gone, gone for ever. And \nwhere is the world which you saw and felt, and \nwhich you hoped in, at twenty ? You are not in it \nnow, and you never will be again, \xe2\x80\x94 never again. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTo my eyes it is the same world. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut it is a very different world to your judg- \nment and to your imagination, and to your heart. \nWhile sight is but one of our faculties, and in this \ninstance the least sufficient one. For though the \nworld looks to be in the same place which it was \nin fifty years ago, yet it is widely away from it, \nhaving gone along with the sun towards the con- \nstellation Hercules. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO the depth of the wisdom of God, and his \nways past finding out ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, dear uncle. And that is the right mood \nfor waiting death in. I mean, a trustful con- \nsciousness of the mystery of the universe. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 23 \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nThe world of my boyhood, and that of my \nyouth, and this of my old age, have been quite \ndifferent from one another, and would have felt \nquite distinct, only that it was by little and little \nthat the first changed into the second, and the \nsecond into the third. A third world am I living \nin ? Then the fourth, which waits me, is in a \nquite natural course. But it will be more sudden \nthan the others. One moment, the soul is in this \nlife, and the next, in another. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is. But very often the soul outgrows \nthis world before the other world opens above it. \nAnd in a last long sickness, many a Christian soul \ngrows more akin to the great family in heaven \nthan it ever was to fellow-creatures in this earth. \nAnd with an old man, shorter and shorter are his \nwalks round home, and the cunning of his hand \ngrows less and less ; dimmer and dimmer grow \nhis eyes, and more and more dull his ears, and \nless and less of this earth he becomes, till at last \nhe is not of this earth at all. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI was young, but now I am old. This change \nI have lived through, and my next great change \nwill be death. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nFrom manhood of thirty to old age of eighty \n\n\n\n24 EUTHANASY. \n\nseems a great change ; but in this present life, \nthere is a change which is greater and more sud- \nden, and it is at the time when a youth first \nmakes out what it is to be a man, and, instead of \na dreamer, he has suddenly to be a doer and a \nsufferer. Often let a youth know himself to be a \nman, and then he will not shrink much from the \nthought of being an old man and a dying man. \nFor he has known and outlived the greatest vicis- \nsitude, when of a youth he became a man. Be- \ncause the world to come is not stranger than the \nreality of this world is to a young man, sometimes ; \nand for him to feel the strangeness of it, and part \nwith his hopes and old feelings, is not less pain- \nful, nay, is worse, than parting with the flesh. \nOne way or another, we most of us have changes \ncome over us that frighten us more than death, \nand at the first feeling of which we have every \none of us said, perhaps, " Would God that I \nmight die ! " These seasons it is well for us to \nremember and live over again. And we will do \nit. We shall have tears in our eyes the while, \nand a choking in our throats, perhaps. But our \nminds will be the better for such recollections, \nand our hearts will open the more earnestly into \nprayer. And when we feel how God was in our \nsorrows, we shall trust the more blessedly that he \nwill be in our deaths. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 25 \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nAnd so he will be, and blessedly so, we will \nhope. For we cannot die without him, any more \nthan be born. And now that we must die, we \nwill think of the times when we would have died \nif we could. And L will think of them to make \nme the more resigned when I remember that I \nam old ; for old age is only a slow dying. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nGrowing old is like bodily existence refining \naway into spiritual life. True, the ripeness of \nthe soul is hidden in the decay of the body ; but \nso is many a ripe fruit in its husk. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo strangely old age does alter us, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA man vain of his person may be dismayed \nby looking thoughtfully on the face of old age ; \nbut, rightly looked at, there is to be read in every \nline of it the exhortation, " Be of good cheer." \nOnly let us love God, and then all things of God\'s \ndoing look lovely, and promise us good. To a \ngood old man, his gray hair is a crown ; and it may \nbe worn, and it ought to be, like what has been \ngiven as an earnest of the crown of immortality. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOur hearts keep beating not by our wills, and \nour looks change by a will not our own, but one \nto be trusted in infinitely. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nAthens * \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nA trustful heart never breaks ; it strengthens \nto the last. And to the last we will trust. God \nis almighty ; then all things are his mightiness, \nand all life is his will. With us, spring and sum- \nmer and autumn and winter shall be the will of \nGod ; and the will of God shall be the wisdom of \nthe starry courses. The vital nature of the air \nabout us shall be the will of God ; and it shall be \nthe will of God that we breathe without thinking. \nAnd to us joys shall be the will of God, and so \nshall pains and sorrows be. Providence is in all \nthings, so that whatever we do not understand \nshall be to us nothing to be frightened about, but \nit shall be mystery and the will of God. And so, \nno less than birth, death shall be to us the will of \nGod ; and in it we will rejoice always, though \nsometimes, perhaps, not without trembling. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nWe neither live nor die to ourselves, and when \nwe die, we die unto the Lord. This we will re- \nmember, Oliver, and rejoice in. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. In joy and sorrow I will remem- \nber what I am ; that I am more than flesh and \nblood, more than the weight of one hundred and \nten pounds of earth ; that I am a creature of God, \nwith the wisdom of God in my shape, and the \ngoodness of God in my senses, and the provi- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n27 \n\n\n\ndence of God in my life, from hour to hour. \nYes, and more than a creature of God I am. I \nam a child of God. Some share in the Divine \nnature I have, and a larger share I am destined \nto. A little while, and then I shall be immor- \ntal. And what I am to be soon, cannot I almost \nfeel as though I were ? Yes, I can. I will \nthink more, then, of what I am to be, and less of \nwhat I am to be saved from. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou mean \n\nATJBIN. \n\nDay by day I am watched over by the loving \neye of God. What unchangeableness there is in \nthat Divine eye I will think of, and not so much \nof what change there grows in my own looks. \nNight by night I will lie down and sleep in the \nthought of God, and in the thought, too, that my \nwaking may be in the bosom of the Father ; and \nsome time it will be ; so I trust. \n\n\n\n28 ETJTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nAll that God owns, he constantly is healing, \n\nQuietly, gently, softly, but most surely ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe helps the lowliest herb, with wounded stalk, \n\nTo rise again. See ! from the heavens fly down \n\nAll gentle powers to cure the blinded lamb ! \n\nDeep in the treasure-house of wealthy Nature, \n\nA ready instinct wakes and moves \n\nTo clothe the naked sparrow in the nest, \n\nOr trim the plumage of an aged raven ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYea, in the slow decaying of a rose, \n\nGod works as well as in the unfolding bud ; \n\nHe works with gentleness unspeakable \n\nIn death itself; a thousand times more careful \n\nThan even the mother, by her sick child watching. \n\nLeopold Schefer. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI could wish to die on a day like this. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, you surprise me. You wish to die ! \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNo, dear uncle. But when I do die, I hope it \nwill be on a day like this. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMost others would think their feelings would \nbe best composed for death in autumn. For \nthen all things are dying round us, or are in har- \nmony with death, \xe2\x80\x94 flowers blackening to the \nground, leaves falling from the trees, nights length- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 29 \n\nening, and days less bright ; and in the air a mist, \nfeeling like the presence of a pall. But why \nwould you rather die in the spring ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOn the first day of spring ? Because, at this \ntime, the instinct of immortality feels strongest in \nme. Only a fortnight since, there was snow on \nthe ground ; and it was still a time of great-coats, \nand neckerchiefs, and cautiousness, and numb- \nness, and thick breathing. So suddenly out of \nwinter, to-day does feel like newness of life. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it does. There is not a cloud in the sky ; \nand how warm it is, and how soft the air is ! I \nfeel quite young again. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYou must feel more than that, uncle. For no \nyoung man, while he is well, ever feels as though \nhe could die. But you, in your decay, have the \nfeeling of youth ; therefore it is that of the youth \nof your immortality. It is the youth of the soul \nthat one feels, on such a day as this. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOn such a day as this, then, the body \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWith me, feels like a garment outgrown by the \nspirit. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo, then, Oliver, you would rather die in the \nspring ? \n\n\n\n30 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, in hope, and in the season of hope. Now \nlet us go into the garden, uncle. Shall we ? \xe2\x80\x94 \nSee here, how fast these daffodils have grown. \nThey will be in blossom next week, and the \nsnowdrop not be out of flower. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nSo they will be, and they will soon be out \nagain. Oliver, do you know Herrick\'s address to \nthe daffodils ? \n\nWe have short time to stay as you, \nWe have as short a spring ; \nAs quick a growth to meet decay \nAs you or any thing. \n\nWe die \nAs your hours do, and dry \n\nAway, \nLike to the summer\'s rain, \nOr as the pearls of morning\'s dew, \nNe\'er to be found again. \n\nThey are pretty lines, though rather pensive ; are \nthey not, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. But I do not like flowers being \nmade to smell of the grave. Besides, we do not \ndie like daffodils ; or, if we do, it is in a way that \nHerrick did not mean. I shall die as the daffo- \ndils did last year. But see, here they are, the \nvery same flowers, alive and growing again ! And \nI, \xe2\x80\x94 I shall live again, and everlastingly. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 31 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTulips, lilies, tiger-lilies, violets, blue-bells, \nhyacinths, \xe2\x80\x94 all are coming up. And here are \nprimroses quite yellow with blossoms. Ay, how \nall the flowers are pushing themselves through \nwhat was as hard as ice a few days since ! \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIt is as though the dead earth were blossoming. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, but these stems, and leaves, and flowers \nhave sprung out of roots. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWell, so they have. But then those roots \nwere formed out of the earth. And there is not \na fibre of any one of them but was mould a little \nwhile since. Look at the honeysuckle ; it is in \nleaf; and so is the lilac, almost; and the goose- \nberry bushes are very nearly. The flowers draw \nnourishment out of the ground for themselves, \nand encouragement for us ; and in sight of a \nthinker, when they blossom, it is not only into \nbeautiful colors, but into suggestions of immortal \nhope. O, no, no, no ! There is not all this \nabounding, teeming life in nature for us to see, \nand think of, and trust in, and then fail of. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO these birds ! how joyously they do sing ! \nthe blackbird, the lark, the hedge-sparrow, ay, \nand the bulfinch, and the robin. I remember, \n\n\n\n32 EUTHANASY. \n\nwhen I was a boy, a robin used to build in the \ngarden gate-post. Three or four years he did ; \nand I suppose he died then. Birds, our English \nbirds, most of them, and I suppose most birds, \nare very short-lived. Well, it is something to \nthink of, that none of all these birds were what I \nlistened to when I was a boy. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNor any of them birds that God fed at that \ntime, and made a delight of in the world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI mean, that you ought to listen to the songs \nof these birds like a child of God, and not like \none without hope. You said that the birds now \nare not what you listened to in your youth. And \nyou said this mournfully ; \xe2\x80\x94 yes, uncle, you did ; \n\xe2\x80\x94 and so you well might, if you thought yourself \nmade altogether as they are ; which you are not. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo ; all flesh is not the same flesh, St. Paul \nsays ; but there is one kind of flesh of men, and \nanother of birds. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so you are not to feel, along with these \nbirds, in such a way as though, like a bird, you \nwere yourself only a little clay made alive. Birds \ndo not live long ; but they do sing with rap- \nture \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. S3 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo they do. But an old man cannot but think \nhow they will all be dead in a year or two, and \nhe himself as well. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOne star differs from another star in glory, and \none world from another world in character, most \nlikely. And so it is not unlikely that into this \nworld of mortality angels may be admitted by \nGod as visitors ; and if so, no doubt it is to them \na joy to see how in decay, and through it, the \nworld renews itself, \xe2\x80\x94 how the dead leaves of au- \ntumn and the perishing trees of the forest do but \ndeepen the mould, and make it productive of new \nand sometimes better trees, \xe2\x80\x94 and to hear how \nfresh and joyful the chorus of the woods always \nis. In the hearing of God, an undying song kept \nup by dying things. And we, \xe2\x80\x94 we will hear it \nlike children of God, with our souls as well as \nwith our mortal ears. Thoughts of mortality \nmay be too much with us. And the birds were \nnever meant to sing them to us. Rather it ought \nto be a joy to us, that God perfects for man such \ndelight, and for himself such endless thanksgiv- \ning, out of the throats of such frail things as birds. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThank you, Oliver, thank you. You will have \nyour wish, as to your dying-time, I am almost \nsure. For you have years to live yet, I hope. \n3 \n\n\n\n34 EUTHANASY. \n\nAnd a few Aprils lived like the last half-hour \nwill make it be spring-time in your soul always. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nGod grant it ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAll that is good for our souls, God does grant ; \nand to have it, we have only to ask it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAn undevout soul is like a tree in rich earth, \nbut with perished roots. Such a tree may have \nthe sun to warm it, and the dews to moisten its \nbark, and the breezes to blow through its branch- \nes ; and so it may maintain a show of life, but \nonly a show. And the soul of a man may re- \nceive into itself, through his eyes, all the objects \nof the world, and through his ears, the knowledge \nof all that has ever happened, and his mind be- \ncome, at the best, not much better than a diction- \nary of words, and a growing catalogue of things. \nBecause, for knowledge to become wisdom, and \nfor the soul to grow, the soul must be rooted in \nGod ; and it is through prayer that there comes \nto us that which is the strength of our strength, \nand the virtue of our virtue, the Holy Spirit. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so we will pray often and heartily while \nwe can ; for soon we shall be cut down. But \nwe shall live again like these flowers. Yes ! I \nshall blossom again into beauty, withered as I \nlook. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 3D \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle ; within your shrunk form there is \nwhat will spread itself into an angel, winged, and \nfree of the heavens. And there is in you a swift- \nness, that may some time make of worlds mere \nresting-places on a journey into infinity. But \nthere is in you more than this ; for there is hid- \nden in you a likeness to the everlasting youth of \nthe Son of God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nCan these bones live ? Or can there be in \nthem what will quicken into an immortal ? \nLord God, thou knowest ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSee this vine. It is merely dry sticks and \nragged bark, to look at. Yet inside there is what \nwill be, in August, gracefulness, and thick leaves, \nand a hundred bunches of grapes. Do I know \nthis of the vine, and cannot I be sure that I know \nsomething like it of myself ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGod makes these flowers what they are, and \nhe will not forget us, nor fail us ; and we ought \nto feel this the more, the more we consider the \nflowers. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nFrom all God\'s works, the spirit of God is to \nbe caught, if they are but looked at religiously. \nAnd by our dwelling devoutly in the world, our \n\n\n\n36 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nsouls will have in them the full meaning of the \nworld. And then, die when we may, in foggy \nNovember, or in January and the middle of win- \nter, there will be spring within our souls ; feelings \nof hope, caught from budding trees, and from the \nsmell of the first violet, and the opening of the \nfirst rose, and from the March song of the lark, \nand the April return of the swallow from beyond \nthe sea. And this hopefulness of nature we can- \nnot give into too believingly. And in all things \nthat we hope humbly, we shall be more than jus- \ntified by that "great hope which maketh not \nashamed." \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\n\n\nThere is no danger to a man that knows \n\nWhat Life and Death is ; there \'s not any law \n\nExceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful \n\nThat he should stoop to any other law. \n\nHe goes before them, and commands them all, \n\nThat to himself is a law rational. \xe2\x80\x94 George Chapman. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nSometimes I shrink from expecting death ; \nbut for long I do not. But, Oliver, as I grow \nolder, I am afraid I may get to dread death. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, you must not be afraid at all ; neither \nof death, nor of the fear of death. For if you are \nafraid of fearing death, you will fear it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd after all, perhaps, death was not meant to \nbe altogether pleasant to us. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo ; a skeleton is a skeleton. And a death\'s \nhead is a death\'s head, ugly in itself, and without \neyes ; but then through the eye-sockets there \nshines the light of God ; and that light the chil- \ndren of God know, and it gladdens them. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou mean, that, the more godlike we become, \n\n\n\n38 EUTHANASY. \n\nthe more godlike death will feel ; and that is true. \nBut, Oliver, one day I am quite resigned to death, \nand perhaps the next day I am not so submissive. \nThis ought not to be. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd why not ? Is there any thing toward \nwhich you always feel the same ? Do pictures \nalways please you the same ? Does not music \nplease you less some days than others ? There \nwas an acquaintance whom you would have been \nvery glad to have seen yesterday, but not to-day. \nAre there any of your friends who are always the \nsame to you ? Then why do you think death \nought to be ? Man is a creature of many moods, \nand the thought of death does not, and cannot, \nagree with them all alike. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, I hope my last day will not happen to be \none of my fearful ones. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, it will not. In a Jewish house, at a \nmarriage feast, wedding garments were given the \nguests at the beginning. And when the Spirit and \nthe Bride say, "Come," death brings us mortals \na garment of willingness to put on. For I have \nknown several good men who were afraid of being \nafraid at the last ; but none of them were. Of \nthe fear of death we must not make a trouble, nor \nmust we try to reason ourselves out of it ; for it \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 39 \n\nwill grow stronger so. There is no arguing with \nthe fear of death ; for it is a ghost in a dark \nroom, and vanishes only with a candle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the eighteenth Psalm, David speaks of his \nhaving been compassed about by the sorrows of \ndeath and the grave. And then he blesses God \nfor deliverance, and says, " Thou wilt light my \ncandle ; the Lord my God will enlighten my \ndarkness." In our fears we must pray, and so \nbring the light and the power of God over our \nsouls. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nPrayer in the darkness of the night is the light \nof the heart. This was said by one whose mean- \ning ought to be surpassed in experience by the \nweakest of us Christians. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is a beautiful saying. Who said it ? Some \nJew ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA Mahometan. And I think he was a friend \nof Mahomet\'s. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd a man that did not fear death, then ; \nthough hardly a man, to be franticly persuaded, \nwith Mahomet, that paradise is under the shadow \n\n\n\n40 EUTHANASY. \n\nof swords. For an awe of death we were meant \nto have ; and fears of it have their use. Down \nthe valley of the shadow of death do dreadful \nmists arise ; then let the thought of God shine out \nfrom my soul, and it will glorify the mists, and \nmake them golden with the light of heaven. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMost of the reasons that frighten men at death \nought to make them afraid to live. And besides, \nreally, life is only a lengthened dying. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, our life is a dying daily, as Paul says ; \nand at the longest, it is not such a very long death. \nFor a man may be ever so young and strong, yet \nit is likely the wood is growing in which he will \nbe coffined ; and there is a divine dial-plate, on \nwhich the hour of his death is pointed to ; and \nwhat is to be his grave will be his grave ; and his \nbody is waited for. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, we were as much born to die as to live. \nAnd if life is worth living, we ought to think that \ndeath is worth dying. But then we were not \nborn sinners ; but sinners we shall die. Yes, but \nthere is Christ Jesus ; and if we are in him, there \nis no condemnation for us. Martin Luther says, \nthe fear of death is merely death itself, and that \nwhoever utterly abolishes death out of the heart \nneither tastes nor feels any death. \n\n\n\nETITHANASY. 41 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle ; but sometimes fear of death is a \n\ndisease of the nerves, and no fault of the heart ; \n\nand sometimes it is a restless fancy. Sir Walter \n\nRaleigh, the night before his execution, could \n\nsnuff the candle and make this couplet : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCowards fear to die ; but courage stout, \nBather than live in snuff, will be put out. \n\nBut Doctor Johnson dreaded death all his life. \nHe believed in another world almost desperately. \nDoubt it he did not, and could not. Yet he \nwould like to have seen a spirit. An apparition \nwould have been a happiness to him, for it would \nhave made him sure of an hereafter. I suppose \nhe feared dying, because he would have to leave \nhis body behind him, \xe2\x80\x94 the eyes he had been used \nto see through, and the ears he had been used to \nhear through. To many men, the next world is \nblank, because they do not know how they are to \nfeel in it. Yet how they now hear, and see, and \nfeel, they cannot at all tell. I touch this table \nwith my hand, and now in my mind there is \nknowledge whether the table is hard or soft ; but, \nup my fingers and arm, how did the sensation of \ntouching the table pass into my brain ? I do not \nknow. Now, as I speak, the air between us vi- \nbrates ; there are airy vibrations ; this we know : \nbut there is no knowing how the words of my \nmouth become instant ideas in your mind. \n\n\n\n42 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is the will of God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is ; and that is what we have to say of \nevery function of our bodies and power of our \nminds, and of the whole world. How our souls \nwill live hereafter is not a greater mystery, than \nhow our bodies do live now. This world is not \nlike a parlour, in which we know all the furniture, \nand every corner ; if it were, we might well shrink \nfrom death, and think it a door opening out of \nthe familiarly known into the fearfully unknown. \nBirth, growth, health, and sickness, labor weary- \ning the body, and sleep refreshing it, food sup- \nporting, and poisons hurting it, \xe2\x80\x94 of life in every \nway, we must say that we cannot tell how it is. \nAnd yet there are persons that shrink from the \nfuture life, and some that do not believe it, be- \ncause they do not feel in what way it will be ; \nwhile what the way is of the very life they are in \nthey cannot tell. For they cannot tell how sight \ngets into the brain through the humors of the eye, \nnor how movements of the air get through the \near to be thoughts in the soul. They do not like \nthinking of death, because it opens into mystery ; \nwhile they themselves live in mystery, and move \nin it, and have all their being in it. A man fears \nfor his soul in a new world, while he cannot find \na bird, or animal, or insect, not one, which its life \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 43 \n\ndoes not exactly suit. Out of the body his soul \nwill go into the man knows not what state, and \nso his mind misgives him ; while there is not a \nswallow comes out of its egg-shell into this great \nworld unsuited to its manner of life ; and because \nthe swallow wants it, there is an instinct of flight \nin it at a month old, which is wiser than geogra- \nphy and astronomy and meteorology. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd yet we are afraid of what will go with our \nsouls ; as though they could go anywhere else \nthan to God ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere is an awe of death which is right, but it \nis not common ; and it is what life would be the \nsublimer for. What are the common fears of \ndeath ? They are what we caught from the tones \nin which our nurses used to frighten us with the \ngrave ; they are terrors which survive among us \nfrom cowardly ages. Weaker and weaker I shall \ngrow, and perhaps my mind may get infected \nwith the failing of my body. And there may \ncome upon me the forms of old terrors, and my \nreason may not be strong enough to command \nthem back, but my faith will sustain me, I hope. \nFear, fear, why should I fear ? For is not this \na world which Christ died in ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes. And this is what makes me dread being \nafraid of death. \n\n\n\n44 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIs it anywhere written in the New Testament \nthat you shall not fear death ? It is a privilege \nnot to fear it ; but a duty it is not. Well, dear \nuncle, if your terrors cannot be borne with in \nfaith, and if they do come upon you, then they \nmay be laughed away, perhaps ; for dying men \ndo laugh, sometimes. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLaughed away, Oliver ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle ; as being the perverse ingenuities \nof a soul frightening itself. But you will say, \nthey will not seem perverse. Well, then, one \nway or another, in merriment or soberness, all \nthings are to be denied which cannot be believed \nin the love of God. For it is no fancy, and it is \nthe experience of our life, and it is Scripture, \nand it is the Gospel, that God is love. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGod is love. God is love itself. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd this truth we will die in. Let what things \nwill come into our thoughts. Wonderful is man\'s \npower of self-torture. And in some moods of our \nminds, we could fancy some most blessed truths \nending in a frightful application to ourselves. Just \nas, in the Middle Ages, in a church built for the \npeace of the soul, a worshipper might get his eye \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 45 \n\nfixed by some diabolical face carved on a corbel. \nDo not I live in God ? And shall I be afraid of \ndying in God ? Is it I that keep my heart go- \ning ? And ought I then to dread its stopping ? \nRather what I ought to fear is the will which it \ndoes beat with, \xe2\x80\x94 the Divine will. And if I am \nwisely afraid of that, I have nothing else to fear. \nGod is the life of my life, I know and feel. And \nso I will not fear dying. I am in God, and I \nshall be in him everlastingly. Die in him I can- \nnot, except as a grain of seed dies in the ground, \nto spring up again into a cluster of wheat-ears \nwaving to the wind on lofty stalks. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, Oliver, when we die, I hope it will be in \nfull faith of a new and a hundred-fold greater life. \nThe hour is getting late. I am afraid, Oliver, I \nhave made you talk more than you ought to have \ndone. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nO, no, uncle,. no ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLook at your watch, Oliver. It is getting late. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is, uncle. And I ought to be readier for \nburial than I am. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, Oliver, what do you mean ? \n\n\n\n46 EUTHANASY. \n\nAITBIN. \n\nThat it is time I had my clothes off, and was \ngetting into bed. \n\nMARK" AM. \n\nI have known one or two instances of per- \nsons being found dead in their beds. The night \nbefore, they did not think when they went up \nstairs \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHow much farther they were going. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so, sometimes, while I am undressing my- \nself, I think that perhaps in an hour or two my \nsoul may be unapparelled of my body. And \nthen, through Christ within me, the hope of glory, \nmy bedroom feels like the cave of the Arima- \nthean, and full of a power that will not suffer my \nsoul to see corruption. And then, as I lie down, \nI say a few lines out of what the knightly physi- \ncian of Norwich used to call his dormitive to bed- \nward. \n\nSleep is a death ; \xe2\x80\x94 O, make me try, \nBy sleeping, what it is to die ! \nAnd as gently lay my head \nOn my grave, as now my bed. \nHowe\'er I rest, great God, let me \nAwake again at last with thee ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 47 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nThis life of mine \nMust be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned. \n\nR. Browning. \n\nThe quantity of sorrow he has, does it not mean withal the quantity of \nsympathy he has, the quantity of faculty and victory he shall yet have ? \n" Our sorrow is the inverted image of our nobleness." The depth of our \ndespair measures what capability and height of claim we have to hope. \nBlack smoke, as of Tophet, filling all our universe, it can yet by true heart- \nenergy become flame and brilliancy of heaven. Courage ! \n\nT. Carlyle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI am not afraid of death, Oliver, but some time \nperhaps I may be ; for better men than I have \ngrown so in old age. Dr. Isaac Milner, \xe2\x80\x94 did \nyou never read his life, Oliver ? He was Dean \nof Carlisle. In one of his letters, written in \ntears, and with his door bolted, he said it seemed \nas though Almighty God had hidden his face from \nhim ; that his prayers were unanswered ; that his \nheart failed him ; and that it was no easy matter \nfor him to look death and judgment in the face. \nOliver, I do not dread death, but I may yet. \nFor I think it is no clear view which I have of \nthe next world ; and I fear it is from this world\'s \nbeing too pleasant to my eyes. \n\n\n\n48 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThis world is more to you than the world to \ncome is. Well, uncle, so I think it ought to be. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut my thoughts of an hereafter are so vague. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHow should they be otherwise ? This ought \nnot to distress you. It is not littleness of faith. \nYou have no clear notions of a future world ; but \nyou are doubtful, not about its certainty, but only \nabout the place of it, and the look and the man- \nner of it. Now, in these respects, nothing has \nbeen shown us of the world to come. Our next \nwill be a spiritual state ; and so, much more than \nthe certainty of it could not be told us ; for the \nthings of a purely spiritual life could not be made \nto be understood by us, whose language and ways \nof thinking have come so largely from our bodily \nexperience. This world we breathe, and feel, \narid see ; but the world to come we can only \nhave faith in. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so I am afraid, Oliver, that my faith in an \nhereafter is weaker than it ought to be. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is not, uncle. From my knowledge of you, \nI know it is not. Men are capable of faith in \nanother life ; some more, some less, than others. \nAnd I might have all faith in it, and not be the \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 49 \n\nbetter for it, but be nothing st 11. Our degree of \nfaith is not a thing for us to be torturing ourselves \nabout. But, uncle, you do believe in a future life, \nonly not as strongly, perhaps, as you are conscious \nof being alive. Why, how should you ? This \ngreen, familiar earth ! \xe2\x80\x94 it is home to live in it. \nAnd to this domestic feeling the other world may \nwell be foreign, sometimes. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou think so, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIf your faith in the world to come were the \nstrongest possible, it could not possibly be of the \nsame nature as your faith in the existence of India, \nor in your being able to get to \n\nWhere the remote Bermudas ride \nIn the ocean\'s bosom unespied. \n\nWe can say a hundred and a hundred thousand \nthings about the life we are living ; but about the \nlife we trust to live, we can say only one thing. \nAnd so it feels as though we were saying almost \nnothing, though the one thing we can say is the \ngreatest that can be said ; for we can say that a \nworld of spirit there is, there certainly is. And \nso, as I was saying, uncle, your belief in an here- \nafter is greater than you think it. And if it feels \nvague, it is because the world to come is vague as \nyet to us all. \n\n4 \n\n\n\n50 EUTHANASY. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nWhat you say is a relief to me, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is impossible that you could think of the fu- \nture life in the same way as you think of to-mor- \nrow. In regard to the manner of the life to \ncome, you can only say that it will be a spiritual \nworld, a world of spirits. But of the way of the \npresent life, a thousand things might be said. It \nis sleeping and waking ; it is " Good night " on \ngoing to bed, and " Good morning " on getting \nup ; it is to wonder what the day will bring forth ; \nit is sunshine and gloominess ; it is rain on the \nwindow, as one sits by the fire ; it is to walk in \nthe garden, and see the flowers open, and hear the \nbirds sing ; it is to have the postman bring letters ; \nit is to have news from east, west, north, and \nsouth ; it is to read old books and new books ; it \nis to see pictures and hear music ; it is to have \nSundays ; it is to pray with a family morning and \nevening ; it is to sit in the twilight and meditate ; \nit is to be well, and sometimes to be ill ; it is to \nhave business to do, and to do it ; it is to have \nbreakfast and dinner and tea ; it is to belong to a \ntown, and to have neighbours, and to be one in a \ncircle of acquaintance ; it is to have friends to \nlove one ; it is to have sight of dear old faces ; \nand, with some men, it is to be kissed daily by \nthe same loving lips for fifty years ; and it is to \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 51 \n\nknow themselves thought of many times a day, in \nmany places, by children, and grandchildren, and \nmany friends. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou remindme, Oliver, of a passage in one of \nHazlitt\'s works. I wish I could remember where ; \nbut I cannot. But I have interrupted you, which \nI ought not to have done. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle, you did not. All that I was going \nto say was, that, this life being so many happy \nthings to some men, it is no wonder, and no fault, \nif they do not long for a change. They know \nwhat this world is ; it is all this happiness : the \nother world they do not know ; they know that it \nis happiness, all happiness, but they do not know \nwhat. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut, Oliver, we are to long for the future life, \nfor the sake of being with God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd have not we God with us now, uncle ? \nAll I mean is this, that we ought not to distress \nourselves about our piety, if this earth is so \npleasant that we are not eager to be out of it. \nFor did not God make the earth, as well as the \nheavens ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI think, Oliver, I cannot understand you. \n\n\n\n52 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI mean to say, that I do not think God wishes \nto have us live in a transport about heaven. Many \npersons think it is a duty to be ecstatic about \nwhat their reward in heaven will be ; but this vio- \nlent feeling they cannot keep up ; and if they could, \nthen they would be the worse for it, for it would \ndisgust them with their duties and work. \n\n3IAEHA3I. \n\nThat is so unlike your usual way of talking ! \n\nATJKLN. \n\nNo, dear uncle, it is not. What I have just \nsaid is in regard to heaven as a reward, and that \nis the only feeling about it which most persons \nhave. There is another expectation of an here- \nafter, that is like a Jacob\'s ladder, reaching from \nour souls to heaven, and up and down which, for \nour help, ascend and descend thoughts, like angels. \nSelfishness, eager for a heaven of enjoyment, is \nquite a different thing in the soul from love, and \npurity, and truth, yearning together for what is \ntheir native element. \n\nBffABWAM. \n\nSo it is. \n\nAUBIH. \n\nUncle, with you to love, and all these comforts \nabout me, these many helps for improvement, \nthese books to read, and all my time for myself, \nand with the green fields to walk in, and with you \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 53 \n\nto think of me, and to talk to, and to be with, \nvery, very pleasant is my life that now is. And \npleasant, too, is my expectation of the life which \nis to come. My thought of heaven is this earth \nat its best, blossoming into infinity. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAy, now I understand you, not at all. But \nnow, about what I interrupted you in, just now. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nAbout the world to come, it ought not to be as \nthough we did not know surely, because we do \nnot know much. From the nearest star, our \nearth, if it is seen, looks hardly any thing at all. \nIt shines, or rather it twinkles, and that is all. \nTo them afar off, this earth is only a shining \npoint. But to us who live in it, it is wide and \nvarious ; it is sea and land ; it is Europe, Asia, \nAfrica, and America ; it is the lair of the lion, \nand the pasture of the ox, and the pathway of the \nworm, and the support of the robin ; it is what \nhas day and night in it ; it is what customs and \nlanguages obtain in ; it is many countries ; it is \nthe habitation of a thousand million men ; and it \nis our home. All this the world is to us, though, \nlooked at from one of the stars, it is only a some- \nthing that twinkles in the distance. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTwinkles ; that is, it is seen one instant, and \nlost another. \n\n\n\n54 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nof \n\n\n\nAnd seen only as a few intermittent rays \nlight ; though, to us who live in it, it is hill and \nvalley, and land and water, and many thousands \nof miles wide. So that if the future world is a \nstar of guidance for us, it is enough ; because it \nis not for us to know, but to believe, that it will \nprove our dear home. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is very well said, Oliver. A little while \nago, you said you thought that all men could not, \nperhaps, hope alike for the next life. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNot with the same warmth. And then there is \nthis. To a man lying hopelessly ill, heaven is a \ncomfort ; to a martyr just about to suffer, it was \ncourage ; and to a man laboring on in poverty \nand neglect, it is holy strength. But a man who \nis not poor, nor ill, nor about to be stoned to \ndeath, must not distress himself, if he does not \nfeel all through his life what faith Stephen had \nonly in his last moments. Faith comes of virtue. \nWhat are the virtues, then, through which an in- \ncrease of faith can come to us ? Kindness to all \nmen, sympathy with goodness in God and man, \nand what is more peculiar for our way of living, \nthankfulness for the ease and the many delights \nwe have. In this comfortable house, uncle, ours \nought to be very largely what is so very rare in \nmen, the faith which comes of gratitude. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 55 \n\nB1ARHAM.. \n\nThis faith we will seek through prayers and \nhymns. And as gratitude to God can be shown \nonly through goodness to his creatures, Oliver, \nyou shall think of some person for us to assist, \xe2\x80\x94 \nsome one, I mean, whom we should not perhaps \nhave helped, but for this conversation. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd through sympathy with him, our souls \nshall be the better. And we will remember, be- \nsides, that for us faith can and ought to grow out \nof the love of friends, and nature, and art. For, \nin any right direction, our love can grow so strong \nand pure as to feel immortal. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou mean \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat with a father of a family, if his is a whole- \nsome hope in Providence, it has grown greatly \nout of what he has felt while embracing his chil- \ndren, and playing with them, and while thinking \nfor them in the night, and hoping for good, and \nuseful, and happy lives for them. And, of ne- \ncessity, a child\'s feeling towards God is the in- \nfinity of what it feels for its parents. My faith is \nto be out of my own Christian heart, and not to \nbe precisely what Stephen showed, or Paul felt, \nor Polycarp had. But let any one be of the \nChristian spirit, and he will feel himself of the \n\n\n\n56 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nChristian heaven. Love, integrity, disinterested- \nness, \xe2\x80\x94 these, blending together, make a con- \nsciousness that crowns me with immortality ; I \ndo not say very brightly so, but certainly. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIs not that, Oliver, \xe2\x80\x94 is not that pride, or \nwhat may end in it ? \n\nATTBIN. \n\nNo, uncle ; indeed it is not. For in this way, \nwhen I feel myself immortal without thinking of \nit, I clasp my hands, and sometimes I kneel and \nlay my forehead to the ground, worshipping God, \nbecause I am made to feel justly and holily and \nlovingly. And because I love along with God, \nalong with God I am sure I shall live. And so \nevery man I love makes me feel myself immortal. \nAnd something of the same experience is worked \nin me by reading a good book, or hearing of a \nright action, and by the sight of any thing beauti- \nful or sublime in nature. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 57 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nBlessed are they who see, and yet believe not ! \n\nYea, blest are they who look on graves, and still \n\nBelieve none dead ; who see proud tyrants ruling, \n\nAnd yet believe not in the strength of Evil ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBlessed are they who see the wandering poor, \n\nAnd yet believe not that their God forsakes them ; \n\nWho see the blind worm creeping, yet believe not \n\nThat even that is left without a path. \xe2\x80\x94 Leopold Schefer. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou are not well this evening, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle, I am not. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNot very unwell, I hope ; though you do look \nso, Oliver. What have you seen, or heard, or \nbeen thinking? Dear Oliver, something has dis- \ntressed you, I think. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle. Only I have been thinking over \nmy life before I knew you. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nToo painful for you, in your weak state, to \nthink of. But it was for the best for you, we are \nsure. But I, \xe2\x80\x94 I ought not to be saying it, I \nknow. That I ever lost sight of you is what I \ncan never forgive myself. \n\n\n\n58 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nBut I \n\n\n\n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nNow, uncle, I am distressed, or I shall be \nvery soon. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGood Oliver, O, if only I could \xe2\x80\x94 \ncannot. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNay, dear uncle, now no more. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOf all your many sufferings, I cannot retrieve \none. What your lot in life has been, it has been. \nAnd what it is to be will not be as happy as I \ncould wish, and as I would make it, only that \n\nyour health But, indeed, had I found you \n\nearlier, things might have been different. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, uncle, you have been very good to me, \nand you are. And believe me, uncle, that I am \nvery happy. For this is only nervous weakness. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut, O, Oliver, only to think \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, I quite agree with something of Jean \nPaul\'s which I have seen, somewhere. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd what is it ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat if God were to show himself to us in the \ndistribution of the suns, and in what makes our \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n59 \n\n\n\ntears fall, and in the abysses, of which he is the \nfulness, and himself the bounds, we should not be \nwilling to say to him, " Be other than thou art." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is rightly and beautifully said, \xe2\x80\x94 very beauti- \nfully. But, Oliver, my dear Oliver, I am very \nsorry for you. But it is such a pleasure to me \nthat I have never heard you murmur ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI hope not to be impatient. I hope to be pa- \ntient. God has done with me what is right ; and \nso he will do with me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, dear Oliver, so we trust, and so we will \nbelieve. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, and so I do. God might inclose \nme in himself, and let me look through the eyes \nof his omnipresence ; and if he did, I should see, \nin the infinite, the mystic order to which the \nstarry systems move ; and in a drop of water, I \nshould witness the roomy space there is for the \nmovements of a thousand lives ; I should know \nthe way in which the armies of heaven are placed, \nand the wise purpose there is in the succession of \nhuman generations, as they are born and die. I \nshould look into the mysteries of eternity, and \nfeel that in human suffering God\'s love is the \nsame as in the blessedness of the angels. I \n\n\n\n60 EUTHANASY. \n\nshould see, all round the wide earth, how good \nall things are in their relation to the everlasting \nwhole. And then, looking up the heights of heav- \nen, and down the depths of life, I should feel the \ngoodness of the universe. And on seeing my \nown lot left empty amongst men, I should then \nlong to return to it and fill it. Yes, if only for a \nmoment I saw that look which always the uni- \nverse has to God, I should pray the Father for \never, out of my whole heart and the joy of it, \n" Thy will be done ; thy will be done." I \nshould be happy for one glimpse of what life \nreally is. But I may be happier without it ; be- \ncause through faith we may be more blessed than \nthrough our mere eyesight. For a man to see, \nand so believe, is well ; but blessed are they who \ndo not see, and yet believe. Sorrow and pain ! \nI will bear them. Lord ! I will bear them. Not \nyet, O, not yet, would I pray to be taken out of \nthis world ! Awhile, awhile longer may this \nchastening last. Lord ! let it end, not when I \nwill, but when thou wilt. O, there are fields in \nthe universe, so wide, and on which God\'s glory \nshines brightly and for ever, and, O, so blessedly ! \nBut I would not enter on them yet, \xe2\x80\x94 not yet. \nThis valley of the shadow of death I will wait \nin ; and I could wish to have the shadow of death \non me, till my soul has fully and rightly felt it. \nA spirit I am, and so is God. And like a spirit \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 61 \n\nwith a spirit, is all which he does with me. A \nsoul, a living soul, I am ; and I will think this \nstrongly, and so feel myself to be God\'s. And \nGod\'s I am for ever. And bright and beautiful \nis what his eye looks on, as my place in heaven, \nthat is to be. \n\n\n\nEUTHA.NASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nMy soul such pleasure oft in sleep receives. \n\nThat death begins to seem a pleasant thing, \n\nNot to be armed, perchance, with such a sting, \n\nOr taste so bitter, as the world conceives. \nFor if the mind alone sees, hears, believes, \n\nWhile every limb is dead and languishing, \n\nAnd greatest pleasure to herself can bring \n\nWhen least the body feels, and least perceives, \nWell may the hope be cherished, that, when quite \n\nLoosed from the burden of her earthly chain, \n\nShe hears, and sees, and knows her true delight. \nRejoice, thou troubled spirit ! though in pain. \n\nIf thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight, \n\nWhat wilt thou in thy native seats again ? \n\nSannazaro. \n\nOne weary evening in illness, I fell asleep, it \nhaving been just before a subject of prayer with \nme, that God would grant me a right frame of \nmind to die in. For, as I said to myself at the \nend of my prayer, " It would be dreadful in \ndeath if sight were to fail me, and I could see no \nfriendly face, and hearing were to fail me, and I \ncould hear no comforting voice, and in my soul \nthere were to be doubts and an agony of doubt. " \nAnd as I thought this, weakness overcame me, \nand I slept ; and very soon I dreamed. \n\nAnd in my dream I heard voices and footsteps. \nAnd it was as though many persons were going \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 63 \n\nto and fro, in great gladness and in light. But I \ncould not myself see at all, and I was like one \nblind. And I was persuaded that I had died in \nmy sleep, and that I was at the gate of the city \nof God, and unable to enter in, on account of my \ndarkness. And I was afraid to move ; for I did \nnot know but that, in one step, I might fall head- \nlong from the narrow way that leads into life. \nAnd I said in myself, "Unblessed art thou, and \nnot able to see God ; and thou must have died in \nimpurity of heart ; and always, always thou wert \nfearful, and like one not quite believing." I was \nterrified. I felt, as it were, the pit of destruction \nyawning against me ; I was to be an example of \nthe just judgment of God ; and in my end was to \nbe seen how, without any great wandering, the \npath of the commandment may be kept up to the \nlast step, and that last step be perdition, through \nweakness of faith. O the dread I was in, and \nthe terror ! \n\nI listened, and there was silence. It was as \nthough all things were hushed by the awfulness of \nwhat was to happen to me. I was there, a spec- \ntacle to the spirits of men and to angels. My \nfaith had failed me at the very last, and in the \nlittleness of it I was to perish. There were wit- \nnesses of my wretchedness nigh me ; that I could \nfeel ; and I could feel that there was sorrow \namongst them. And within myself I thought, \n\n\n\n64 EUTHANASY. \n\nu Thy unbelief was thy own misery on earth, and \nnow, at the very gate of heaven, it is a grief to \nthe angels, and it is what God has no pleasure in." \nAnd now, at once, I was calm. Hell might be \nunder my feet, but it could not open, except by \nthe will of God ; and that blessed will was what \nI would pray to have done, though destruction \nhad hold of my feet the while. I bowed my \nhead, and covered my face with my hands, and I \ncried, " Though he slay me, yet will I trust in \nhim." Then a voice of triumph said, " Now he \nhas overcome, and has got the victory ! " Anc \nother glad voices said, " The victory, the victo- \nry ! " But there was one which said, " Almost, \nhe has." \n\nFor a moment I could see, and then I was \nblind again. When I feared, then I was in a \nhorror of darkness ; but every hopeful thought \nflashed through me, like lightning out of a mid \nnight sky. I wondered what was to happen \nBut happen what might, I thought I could perish \ngladly, if it were by the will of God, and for \nGod\'s good purpose. \n\nAnd now, with this perfect love of God, my \nfear was cast out. And I was not in blindness \nany longer. The God whom I loved, I could see \nby. I could see ; and, O, by what a light ! For \nthere was no shadow in it, because it did not \nshine from a sun or a moon, or from any one \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 65 \n\nquarter. But it was uncreated light, and was the \nvisible presence of God, and was itself a joy to \nsee by. \n\nThere were spirits standing round me. And \nsome of them I knew, by their looks, were natives \nof the same world as myself. But towards oth- \ners, I felt as though I did not know them, and \nyet as though I knew them well. O the blessed- \nness which went through me from their looks ! \nCompassed about with them, it was as though I \ncould have remained for ever, and not have mov- \ned. But behind those who were nearest me, I \nsaw standing a friend of mine, who had died \nmany years before. His face was glorified ; but \nwhether it was changed or not, I cannot tell. \nHis look made the same feeling in me that his \nbest w T ords used to do, and so it was I knew him, \nas I think. And I saw another person whom \nI knew. Then I said, " O my brethren, am I \nthen amongst you, at last ? And am I come out \nof the earth so safely ? " \n\nThen I learned that I had yet to die. And \nmany high things were said to comfort and en- \ncourage me. I was in a tumult of glory, and \njoy, and wonder. Then I asked, " Shall I re- \nmember these great things when I come to die ? " \nAnd then one answered, " No. Nor in the body \nwill he remember them at all. For of the way \nof our spiritual life no knowledge can be kept by \n5 \n\n\n\n66 EUTHANASY. \n\na dweller of earth. But let them that have come \nout of the earth tell him what earthly words of \ntheirs have proved the truest, and he will remem- \nber them." \n\nAnd the first who spoke was one who had \nbeen a minister of Christ\'s in the town of my \nbirth, but who had died a century and a half be- \nfore I was born ; for it was Richard Baxter who \nspoke, and it was as though he knew me. His \nname had been known and loved by me as a little \nchild, with a love which I learned from my dear \nmother. And so, through earnest gazing on his \nface, I did not hear his words quite exactly. But \nas nearly as I remember, he said, " Never be \npersuaded that ever a soul will be cast out, which \nhumbly, and earnestly, and with many prayers, \nhas sought its God." \n\nThen Robert Leighton looked at me and said, \n"You, in your thoughts, shut up death into a \nvery narrow compass, namely, into the moment \nof your expiring. But the truth is, it goes through \nall your life ; for you are still losing and spend- \ning life, as you enjoy it." \n\nThe next who spoke was one whom I knew \nto be John Wickliffe, and he said, " Men should \nnot fear, except on account of sin, or the losing \nof virtues ; since pain is just, and according to \nthe will of God. And the joy which saints have, \nwhen they suffer thus, is a manner of bliss which \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 67 \n\nbelongs to them in the earth ; and it may be more \nof joy to them than all their worldly desires." \n\nAnd then some one said, u You may not look, \nat your pleasure, to come to heaven in a feather- \nbed. It is not the way. For our Lord himself \ncame hither with great pain and many tribulations ; \nthat was the path wherein he walked hither. And \nthe servant may not look to be in better case than \nhis Master." He who spoke thus stood so that \nI could not see him, but by what he said I knew \nthat he was Thomas More. \n\nM Reflect on death as in Jesus Christ, not as \nwithout Jesus Christ. Without Jesus Christ it is \ndreadful, it is alarming, it is the terror of nature. \nIn Jesus Christ, it is fair and lovely, it is good \nand holy, it is the joy of the saints." These \nwere Pascal\'s words to me. \n\nThen one who stood next to Pascal looked at \nme. Him I did not know ; but when he spoke, \nI knew him by his words to be Thomas a Kem- \npis. And he said, " When the hour of your \ntrial comes, do you pray, \xe2\x80\x94 O God, dearly lov- \ned ! this hour, it is right that thy creature should \nsuffer something from thee, and for thee. O Fa- \nther, the hour is come for him, which from all \neternity thou hast foreknown would come, that \nthy servant should lie prostrate at thy door ; but, \nLord, do thou let him in to be with thee, O, for \never ! For a little while must T be nothing, and \n\n\n\n68 EUTHANASY. \n\nI must fail in the sight of men, and I must be \nworn with suffering and weakness. But it is all \nso that I may rise in the dawn of a new light, and \ngrow glorious in heaven. Holy Father ! so thou \nhast ordered it ; and what is done and is doing on \nme is thy decree." \n\nWhen this prayer for my learning was ended, \nAugustine exclaimed, "O this life which God \nhas laid up in store for them that love him, \xe2\x80\x94 this \nlife indeed ! This happy, safe, and most lovely, \nthis holy life ! This life which fears no death, \nwhich feels no sorrow, which knows no sin ! \nThis perfect love and harmony of souls ! This \nday that never declines, \xe2\x80\x94 this light that never \ngoes out ! Think of its blisses and glories, and so \nfind some refreshment from the miseries and toils \nof a perishing life. And at the last, recline your \nweary head and lay you down to sleep with joy ; \nfor you know now that that sleep shall be shaken \noff again, and the blessedness of this life begin at \nonce on your awaking." \n\nThen a voice spoke ; and, O, it was so clear, \nand sweet, and grateful ! and it was the voice of \nMargaret Fox ; and she said, " Now these have \nfinished their course and their testimony, and are \nentered into their eternal rest and felicity. I \ntrust in the same powerful God, that his holy \narm and power will carry thee through whatever \nhe hath yet for thee to do ; and that he will be \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nthy strength and support, and the bearer up of \nthy head unto the end, and in the end. For I \nknow his faithfulness and goodness, and I have \nexperience of his love. To whom be glory and \npowerful dominion for ever. Amen." \n\nAll that were standing by said Amen, like one \nvoice. And with Amen upon my lips, I awoke. \n\nI was sitting by the fire. And in my hand \nthere was a book, into which I had copied many \nthings from my reading. From this dream I in- \nferred that we mortals have all the knowledge of \nthe world to come which we can have, and all \nthe assurance of it which is good for us, and that, \nfor a believer in earnest, the right feeling towards \nthe next life is hope, and not fear. And from \nmy dream I learned that sympathy with saints \ngone hence brings us into that state of mind that \nis most firmly persuaded of the heavens, into \nwhich they have entered. \n\n\n\n70 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nDeath ig another life. We bow our heads \n\nAt going out, we think, and enter straight \n\nAnother golden chamber of the king\'s, \n\nLarger than this we leave, and lovelier. \xe2\x80\x94 P. J. Bailey, \n\nAnd the pure soul emancipate by death, \nThe Enlarger, shall attain its end predoomed, \nThe eternal newness of eternal joy. \xe2\x80\x94 Southey. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nI have been reading your dream, Oliver. \nThere is wisdom in it. And I like it much, and \nso I do the sonnet from the Italian. \n\nATJB1N. \n\nBut of course you do not think it my transla- \ntion ; for I am no poet. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, yes, you are, according to what you quoted \nthis morning, from some one : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPoets are all who love, who feel great truths, \nAnd tell them ; and the truth of truths is love. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhat book is that which you have been read- \ning, uncle ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA treatise by Peter Huet, on whereabouts \nParadise was. It was written in the seventeenth \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 71 \n\ncentury, like many, and perhaps most, of the \nbooks on that subject. I think myself, that Par- \nadise was in Asia, certainly. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI dare say it was. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou are not interested in the subject ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle ; or rather, I do not mind reading \nthose books. Paradise is not so lost as is some- \ntimes thought. The garden of Eden is now \nspread out into the width of the world. Our \nhomes are bowers in it ; our roads are walks in \nit ; and always within reach hang forbidden fruits, \nthough now they are such as are often their own \npunishment in the eating, \xe2\x80\x94 apples of Sodom, \ngolden in the rind and dust inside. There is in \nthe garden still the tree of the knowledge of good \nand evil, and this we may eat of now ; for it is \nfull grown, and the fruit of it is ripe. And by \neating of it, we, too, have our eyes opened, and \nso are able to recognize, as the very tree of life, \nwhat otherwise looks deadly, and itself dead wood ; \nI mean the tree of the crucifixion. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat life is lost by seeking to save it, and is \nsaved by willingness to lose it, is very hardly, and \nnot very often, believed ; though most persons do \nthink they believe it. \n\n\n\n72 ETJTHANASY. \n\nATJBTN. \n\nThe tree to be desired to make one wise may \nbe eaten of now, and so men do not mind it ; \nmany of them do not, and so their eyes are never \nopened ; and so, being blind, they fail of the fruit \nof the tree of life. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou would say, then, that only by eating of the \ntree of the knowledge of good and evil can men \nknow that the world is a garden of Eden, with the \ntree of life in it. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nBut that now it is death who is in it, to dress \nit, and to keep it, none fail of knowing ; though \nto some he appears to be a spoiler of the garden ; \nand he looks an enemy of God, instead of being \na servant and one to be trusted in by us crea- \ntures, fully, if not fondly. And this is through \nmen\'s not taking of the tree of the knowledge of \ngood and evil ; because if death came into the \nworld with the forbidden eating of that fruit, it is \nthe ordained eating of it that opens our eyes, so \nas to see in death an angel of light, toiling in \nearthly guise among us earthly creatures. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLevelling us with the dust, out of which we \nwere made. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut into which we do not altogether, nor \nmainly, die. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 73 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo we trust. But it is not what death does \nthat makes us hope the more. It is with his soul \nin his face, that man can be believed immortal. \nBut to me, a dead body \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIs no discouraging sight. For there is God \nabout it. And his adorable will is as plain in the \ndeparture as it is in the presence of life. The \nbody of a saint is a temple of God, from which \nthe minister has withdrawn, and in which service \nis ended, and from which the Lord has accepted \nthe prayer, " Now lettest thou thy servant depart \nin peace." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou have so many pleasant images for death, \nOliver, in talking of it ! I suppose it is from your \nremembering death in your cheerfulness. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, I would wish to remember it more fa- \nmiliarly. Eating and drinking, I would wish to \nremember death ; not by drinking out of a human \nskull, as some have done in loving remembrance, \nand others out of hostile triumph ; but I would \neat my food, bethinking me often that any morsel \nmay be my last. This would be a solemnity \nthat from its very commonness could not continue \nmournful, but might be profitable always. \n\n\n\n74 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARRAM. \n\nDeath never ought to be a painful thought with \nany one, because it ought to be so common, \xe2\x80\x94 \nsuch a daily expectation. \n\nAT7BIN. \n\nIt ought not to be shrunk from for its novelty. \nIt is not as though we were the first or the sec- \nond of our race, or as though we belonged to the \nsecond or to the third generation of our kind. It \nis not as though none or only a few had ever \ndied, and we were to be of the earliest. Only \nsince the decease of Charlemagne, there have \ndied twenty-five times a thousand millions of our \nfellow-creatures. Let us weep with the bereav- \ned that weep, and feel along with those that are \nill, and those that are dying ; and then down to \nthe grave will be like a path we know well, and \ntoo well to be frightened on it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is not by chance, but through God, that we \ncome to an end. Many ways does God speak \nto us creatures of his, as in the events of life, \nfrom the Bible, and from within our hearts ; and \nI trust that we have listened to that Divine voice \noften enough, to know the tone of it at once and \neverywhere. Because, when we are spoken to, \nand have our souls required of us, we shall know \nthen that we are spoken to by the loving voice of \nsy Kur Father in heaven ; and we shall answer, as I \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 75 \n\nhope, O, so willingly ! \xe2\x80\x94 " Lord, now lettest thou \nthy servant come to thee in peace." \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd that we shall say and feel, I hope, and no \ndoubt we shaH, if we have often said to God \nbefore, cc Thy will be done." We live in one \nanother ; father and mother in their children, hus- \nband and wife in one another, and some few \nfriends in one another. So that we most of us \ndie more than once, before we die of disease. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the same way as Erasmus said of his friend \nSir Thomas, "It seems as though in More I \nmyself had been killed." \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhen death takes those we love, then we love \ndeath. Those who are alone in the w T orld are as \nthough they had been left for sleep ; and death \ncomes over them like a sleep, for they are not \nunwilling. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNot once, nor one thousand times, but more \nthan fifty thousand times, I have been to sleep ; \nso that I ought not to be afraid to die now. And \nto my feelings, the evening of life ought to deepen \non to the obscurity of the grave, as pleasantly as \ndusk gets dark. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, just so ; and exactly so. There \n\n\n\n\n\n\n76 EUTHANASY. \n\nis no universal night in this earth, and for us in \nthe universe, there is no death. What is to us \nhere night coming on is, on the other side of the \nearth, night ending, and day begun. And so what \nwe call death the angels may regard as immortal \nbirth ; and so they do, as we may well believe. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo they do, very often, we may be sure. In \nthe early days of the Christian Church, what day \na Christian died on was spoken of as that of his \nbirth, \xe2\x80\x94 his birth into a higher existence. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThrough the body and its wants, I am held \ndown to the earth\'s surface, and to its customs \nand employments ; and so I am kept out of heav- \nen, and from off the bosom of God, and from the \ncompany of Christ, and out of the rapture of the \nangels. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGod help us ! God make us sure of that hap- \npiness at last ! God make us ready for it, \xe2\x80\x94 for \nthat joy unspeakable ! \n\nAT7BIN. \n\nThe day of our decease will he that of our \ncoming of age ; and with our last breath we shall \nbecome free of the universe. And in some re- \ngion of infinity, and from among its splendors, \nthis earth will be looked back on like a lowly \nhome, and this life of ours be remembered like \na short apprenticeship to Duty. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 77 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nThis is the prerogative of the noblest natures, \xe2\x80\x94 that their departure to \nhigher regions exercises a no less blessed influence than did their abode on \nearth ; that they lighten us from above, like stars by which to steer our \ncourse, often interrupted by storms. \xe2\x80\x94 Goethe. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nAny thing a dead man leaves behind him, un- \nfinished, makes one feel so strangely the nothing- \nness of human purposes ! I remember the pain \nin which I once saw what would have been a \nvery beautiful picture, only it was not finished ; \nfor the painter had died very suddenly. And \nonce I was in the studio of a sculptor who was \nlately deceased ; and I was much affected by the \nappearance of a statue, the nobleness of which \nwas just being brought out of the marble when \nthe artist died. And whatever purpose death \ncuts a man off from has for his surviving friends \na look \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAs though it had been shone on by light not \nof this world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut it is sad, when genius dies with its work \nunfinished. \n\n\n\n78 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI do not think so, uncle. Besides, when \nwould genius finish its work, \xe2\x80\x94 all the work it \ncould do ? For its growing grandeur would al- \nways have fresh excellence to show. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAy so, you are right. But Spenser\'s Fairy \nQueen, incomplete for ever \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIs a broken sentence ; and what ought to be \nthe end of it is most eloquent silence. Spenser\'s \nwriting is so vivid, that recollection of what he \nsays is like a voice speaking in one\'s brain. I \nshut my eyes, and then the poet himself is with \nme ; and he tells me of Prince Arthur and his \nfriends, in such a way as to make virtue itself feel \nmore virtuous still ; then he stops, when he has \nonly half told what he began ; then there is a \nword and half another word ; and then Spenser \nsays no more. Then I am thoughtful, and an \nawe comes over me. For of the poet\'s having \ndied I do not think. And it is as though Spen- \nser had been changed while talking with me. \nAnd then I think how, to the angels, this whole \nearth looks like a Mount of Transfiguration. And \nfeel afresh how this is a scene in which men be- \ncome spirits, and blessed spirits, if they like. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd such we will hope Spenser is. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 79 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere have not been very many men of whom \nit could be better hoped than of Spenser, I think. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI think he was certainly a good man, Oliver, \nbecause out of the heart are the issues of life ; \nand Spenser\'s heart was full of the beauty of a \nmoral life. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNow and then, he either has or makes occasion \nto say things, which, from most other men, would \nbe lustful incentives ; but from him they do not \nsound so. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nShowing how, to the pure, all things are pure. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo what you said of another we say of you, \nO Edmund Spenser ! your virtue is the bright- \nness of your honor on earth, and elsewhere it is \nthe reason \n\nFor which enrolled is your glorious name \n\nIn heavenly registers above the sun, \n\nWhere you, a saint, with saints your seat have won. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHe lies buried \n\n, AUBIN. \n\nNot he, but his body does. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn Westminster Abbey, I think. \n\n\n\n80 ETJTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle ; and nigh the grave of the poet \nChaucer. Yes, and Geoffrey Chaucer was he \n\nThat left, half told, \nThe story of Cambuscan bold. \n\nHe is another of those who have gone away with \nthe word in their mouths, and who have left us to \nfeel as though that word were to be spoken yet, \nand we to hear it, \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nI will read you the last lines that Chaucer \nwrote. They are the end of what is called the \nGood Counsel of Chaucer, and are said to have \nbeen made by him upon his death-bed, while ly- \ning in his great anguish. \n\nThat thee is sent, receive in buxomness. \nThe wrestling with this world asketh a fall. \nHere is no home ; here is but wilderness ; \nForth, pilgrim, forth ! beast out of thy stall ! \nLook up on high, and thank thy God of all. \nWaive thou thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead, \nAnd truth thee shall deliver ; \'t is no dread. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOr, as I have seen the last line modernized, \n\nTruth to thine own heart \nThy soul shall save. \n\nA choice couplet, is not it, uncle ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nPerhaps it is. But I should feel the worth of \nit better, if you were to recite the poem itself \nthat you quote from. Now will you ? \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 81 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle ; what I remember of it, I will. \n\nBritain\'s first poet, \nFamous old Chaucer, \nSwan-like, in dying \n\nSung his last song, \nWhen at his heart-strings \n\nDeath\'s hand was strong. \n\n" Earth is a desert, \nThou art a pilgrim : \nLed by thy spirit, \n\nGrace from God crave ; \nTruth to thine own heart \n\nThy soul shall save." \n\nDead through long ages \nBritain\'s first poet, \xe2\x80\x94 \nStill the monition \n\nSounds from his grave, \n" Truth to thine own heart \n\nThy soul shall save." \n\nChaucer of the fresh, green memory, \xe2\x80\x94 blessings \nbe with him ! For him utterly dead, dead both \nin body and soul, we cannot think. And so he \nhelps our faith in immortality. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThank you, Oliver. But what book are you \nlooking for ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe Fairy Queen. I have found it. I want \n\nto see what were Spenser\'s last lines. Now, \n\nuncle, I am right, am I not, in having a liking \n\neven for the incompleteness of some of our great- \n\n6 \n\n\n\n82 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n\ner authors ? We hear a poet singing ; and while \nwe listen, we are bettered, and silent, and we \nare enraptured. Then, while we are listening so \neagerly, the voice dies away into silence and into \nheaven. And so for a while heaven feels the \nnigher us, and to our earthly apprehensions the \nmore real. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, you make me feel the same as yourself. \nWell, now what are the last lines of Spenser ? \nThey are part of what w T as to have been a canto \nin a seventh book, I suppose. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNow when you remember that Spenser was in- \ntending six more books for his poem, do not \nthese very last lines look as though, while he \nwrote them, another hand had been laid upon his \nhand, and had guided it prophetically ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the midst of life we are in death. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd in the very middle of what Spenser thought \nwas his great work, he died ; and the lines that \nhappened to be the last from his pen are as though \nthey had been meant against his death : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor all that moveth doth in change delight. \nBut thenceforth all shall rest eternally \nWith Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight ; \n! that great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabbath\'s sight. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEtTTHANASY. 83 \n\n\n\nNow, in the very midst of his work, is not it as \nthough the poet\'s hand had been unconsciously \nguided into writing a prayer against the death that \nwas just upon him ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the midst of his diligence he longed for \nheaven ; and that instant, it opened to him. \nSome might call this chance ; but I would not, \nnor would any, I think, who have lived piously \nand watchfully ; for such persons know the power \nprayer has to bring us nigh to God, and they \nknow how holiness can refine, almost into film, \nwhat separates our souls from the Soul they live \nin ; and so they know that, even in this earth, \nsomething of the light of heaven is possible, in \nsome minds. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nDear uncle, you have said what I quite agree \nwith ; and it is a great truth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, do you remember any other authors \nwho have died and left unfinished works behind \nthem ? There must be many ; but I cannot re- \nmember any of them. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nJean Paul Richter died, leaving behind him a \nmanuscript he had not been able to finish. It \nwas on the immortality of the soul. And so \nwhile expressing his faith in an hereafter, Richter \n\n\n\n84 EUTHANASY. \n\nwent away into the knowledge of it. Frederick \nSchlegel left incomplete what was to have been \nthe second part of his greatest work. He was \nseized with death at his writing-desk, and the last \nword he wrote was But. And that is a word \ndeath scratches with his dart, at the end of the \nrecord of every life. A man\'s eyes are shut ; \nhis breath is stopped ; his last words are spoken, \nand have been written in the book of God\'s re- \nmembrance ; but, \xe2\x80\x94 ay, " but after this, the judg- \nment." Death means blessedness, and it means \nperdition ; and which meaning it shall have for \nus is left for ourselves to fix. There is given us \nthe choice of two pages, for our lives to be writ- \nten on ; but they are not quite blank, and if we \nwill write on the wrong side, then we write our \ncondemnation with our own hands ; for at the \nbottom of that page it is written beforehand, \n" But after this, perdition." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDid not Keats leave some poem unfinished ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSome poem, uncle ! Hyperion he left, and it \nwas as a fragment. Now I will read you what \nwere his last lines. \n\nThus the god : \nWhile his enkindled eyes, with level glance \nBeneath his white, soft temples, steadfast kept \nTrembling with light upon Mnemosyne. \nSoon wild commotions shook him, and made flush \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 85 \n\nAll the immortal fairness of his limbs, \xe2\x80\x94 \nMost like the struggle at the gate of death, \nOr liker still to one who should take leave \nOf pale, immortal death, and with a pang \nAs hot as death\'s is chill, with fierce convulse \nDie into life. So young Apollo anguished ; \nHis very hair, his golden tresses famed, \nKept undulation round his eager neck. \nDuring the pain Mnemosyne upheld \nHer arms as one who prophesied. \xe2\x80\x94 At length \nApollo shrieked : \xe2\x80\x94 and lo ! from all his limbs \nCelestial \n\nCelestial was the last word Keats wrote, and \nthen he himself became it. Very singular, is not \nit ? And in telling what Apollo felt, is not it as \nthough Keats had himself agonized into immor- \ntality ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHe is a very vivid writer ; and he is a favorite \nof yours, Oliver, is not he ? \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. For my experience in life has \nbeen not very unlike what his was. I have had \nworse things to bear than he, but I have had a \nstronger body to endure in than he was born with. \nWhat a thought this is ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere soil is, men grow, \nWhether to weeds or flowers ; but for me, \nThere is no depth to strike in. \n\nThis I used to say every day of my life, before I \nknew you, uncle. But now I do not, O, not \n\n\n\n86 EUTHANASY. \n\nnow ! For I have your love, uncle, and I am at \nease in my mind. I am so happy to what I was ! \nand sometimes it almost frightens me to feel how \nhappy I am. But I must not talk of this. \n\nMARHAM, \n\nOliver, my dear Oliver \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, you know what poor Keats \'s end was. \nHe died of a broken heart ; or rather of consump- \ntion, brought on by wrongs done to him, and by \nanxiety, and by the want of any prospect in life, \nsuch as any one of ten thousand persons might \nhave opened to him. His poems are testimonies \nof the world\'s strange character. They are lov- \ned, dearly loved, now ; but now the author can- \nnot be honored nor helped in life. And all the \ngreater truths that are in the world, \xe2\x80\x94 what are \nthey ? They are what were coined by wise men \nout of their experience. And then did they pay \nthem away ? No ; but they gave them, like \ncharity, on the way-side of life. The noble spir- \nits ! And then they were hooted, like the utter- \ners of base coin ; and if any one of them had a \nfast friend, he was scowled at and suspected. \nThis wickedness, uncle, you and I have never \nbeen guilty of, I trust. But wherever genius is \nto be seen, we reverence it like light that is not \nwithout a something divine in it ; and we do not \nthink the worse of a man, because, in the world\'s \ndarkness, God has given him that light to hold. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 87 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGenius often has ill success in the world. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nTo the world\'s great shame ; for genius is only \na genial working of the mind, a conjoint action of \nthe moral and the intellectual powers. A man of \nthe highest genius is a highly moral and a highly \nreligious man, and a man of infinite love. Is he \ndisabled for success in the world, \xe2\x80\x94 for getting \nmoney and friends ? So he is in some respects ; \nbut it is in what respects are immoral and irre- \nligious. Men of some genius have done wrong \nthings ; so they have, for they were men ; but \nthey would have done worse things but for their \ngenius. A man of perfect genius is a man of \ntrembling sensibility, of the greatest delicacy of \nfeeling, of honesty most scrupulous, and of a tem- \nper to help the needy as much as he can. The \nconduct of such a man is like Christianity in ac- \ntion, and very often it is not very unlike Christ in \nits end, in this world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, you are, \xe2\x80\x94 but you do not quite mean \n\nOliver, our Lord Jesus was crucified, and \n\nit was for his goodness. Perhaps it was impos- \nsible that there could ever be a greater contrast \nthan there was between Jesus in the image of \nGod, and the Jewish priesthood in their priest- \ncraft. Nothing at all like such a moral contrast \ncan possibly exist now. \n\n\n\n88 EUTHANASY. \n\nAWBIN. \n\nO, yes, uncle, there does ; and it is between \nChristianity and the manners of the world. My \ndear uncle, you know nothing of life, nothing at \nall of the badness of it. I do not mean to say, \nthat there are not hundreds and thousands and tens \nof thousands of positions, in which men may and \ndo act as Christians. But I do mean to say, that \nthere are very common circumstances, in which a \nman fails, as a matter of course, if he does to \nothers as he would have them do to him. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDo you think it would prove so, Oliver, if it \nwere tried ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, if you were to put a bit of gold into a \nbushel of pease, and the measure were then to be \nwell shaken for a time, would not the gold go to \nthe bottom ? \n\n3IARHA3I. \n\nYes, Oliver, it would, it would. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThrough having genius, does a man fail in the \nworld ? It is grandly, and like the dying of a \nmartyr ; and not because the man is not fit, and \nthe best fitted, for any work, the lowliest and the \n\nhighest. \n\nMARHA3I. \n\nOliver, I agree with you quite. I have been \nprovoking you to talk. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 89 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO uncle, have you ? Then you will agree with \nme in what I am going to say. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat is it ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat the way in which often genius gets treat- \ned, in this life, argues there being a life to come. \nIf there were no grounds given us for expecting \nanother world, still it might be believed in, and it \nwould be, by some few better persons, though it \nwere only as a place in which for wisdom to be \njustified of her children. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, Olive;*, I do quite agree with you. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOf all the proofs of an hereafter offered by hu- \nman nature itself, to my mind there are none so \nconclusive as the sufferings of the righteous for \nrighteousness\' sake ; or as those miseries that are \nbrought upon a man through his goodness. A \nman\'s nature has been too good for the sympathy \nof his fellow-creatures ; then how solemnly sug- \ngestive this is of what must surely be the great \nlove of God for it. \n\n\n\n90 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. \n\nStill in the soul sounds the deep underchime \nOf some immeasurable, boundless time. \n\nFor otherwise why thus should man deplore \n\nTo part with his short being ? "Why thus sigh \n\nO\'er things which fade around and are no more, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhile, heedless of their doom, they live and die, \n\nAnd yield up their sweet breaths, nor reason why, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut that within us, while so fast we flee, \n\nThe image dwells of God\'s eternity. \xe2\x80\x94 Williams. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, I know what that feeling is. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAll the good I have done seems nothing, and \nall that I have attempted would go into a nutshell. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA nutshell ! The whole world would go into \nit, seas, mountains, and air. So Sir Humphrey \nDavy has said. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd in one of the Psalms, David has said of \nGod, that he takes up the isles as a very little \nthing. And we that live on the islands, what are \nwe ? Ants on molehills we are, and less still. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhat then ? For the less we feel ourselves, \nthe better ; the meaner, the happier; because, like \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 91 \n\na medal, character has two sides, and humility is \nalways the obverse of greatness. At times, not \noften, indeed, nor long, but still sometimes, none \nare so weary of life as they that can enjoy it most \nand that are worthiest^of it. For what is that \nweariness ? It is the pining of a great heart ; it \nis a soul craving for itself some work worthy of \nits pains. The feeling of life\'s nothingness ar- \ngues a mind capable of heavenly grandeur, and if \ncapable, then made for it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo we will hope. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nI am glad there is no everlastingness in the \nworld, and that I know it. I am glad the world \nis only for a season, for me and my fellow-spirits \nto be in. It makes me feel myself. Do not we \nknow, that chambers are furnished, and are beau- \ntified with gold and silk, for princes to lodge one \nnight in, \xe2\x80\x94 the very shortness of the use being \nthe greatness of the honor ? And so, because this \nbeautiful earth is only for so short a time, I am \nsure of what must be my own royalty. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nRoyalty ! \n\nATTBIN. \n\nKingly character, then. And so I only feel \nmyself what Christ has made me ; for through \nhim I am a king and a priest unto God and the \nFather. \n\n\n\n92 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNow, Oliver, I never thought of that passage \nso. But so it is, that one man sees all heaven \nthrough a text which to another reader is blank of \nmeaning. , \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd one man feels himself nothing on the \nearth, while another feels the earth nothing under \nhim. But both ways of feeling are right ; but \nthey are quite right only when they are moods of \nthe same mind. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI think so ; for, in itself, life\'s emptiness is \nmournful and discouraging to feel. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is. But, uncle, this life is more real to \nyou now than it was in your youth. For now \nthat you feel yourself a living soul, eternity feels \nyour element, and it is what you live in ; for they \nare only appearances that change, reality in all \nthings being eternal. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI do not think I understand you, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYou have looked through death, and beyond it, \ninto life ; this you have done ; you have looked \nthrough what is darkest, and so now, in all tem- \nporal things, there is for you the feeling of what \nis beyond and eternal. But in this way, when life \n\n\n\nEITTHANASY. 93 \n\nbecomes nothing to us, it is because we are our- \nselves sublimed. You go into the city, and it is \nto your better knowledge that luxury is a look only, \nand not a joy : about the court men are fretting \nfor coronets and collars, but it is to your more \nmanly judgment that these things are bawbles : \nin his study, the metaphysician is wearying him- \nself with thought, and he does most of it in vain, \nas you think now ; but this is because your spirit- \nual experience is greater than it was once, and \nbecause you are sure that all wise thinking about \nthe soul must end in the wish to have it become \nas a little .child\'s. And this earth is beautiful, \nvery beautiful, but then you feel that it will perish. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nVanity of vanities, all is vanity. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nPerhaps so. But those words are themselves \nno vanity. For when I think this world away \ninto nothingness, then where is my soul ? It is \nsomewhere. Where is it ? It is left face to face \nwith God. This I have often felt for a moment ; \nnot more. A trance-like feeling ! The very awe \nof which made me remember myself, and so \nbrought the world back again between my soul \nand God. What are those lines, uncle, that you \nquoted last night ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThey are Samuel Daniel\'s : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n94 EXJTHANASY. \n\nThat unless above himself he can \nErect himself, how poor a thing is man ! \n\nAnd so he is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSomething like that couplet is what Coleridge \nhas written in his biography, that we were indeed \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0navra kovis, kcu Tvavra ye\\a>s, Ka\\ Trdvra to fir]div, if we \n\ndid not feel that we were so. Vanity of vanities \nColeridge would have been himself, only that he \nknew he was ; no! he felt he was. For because of \nthat very feeling, he knew that he must himself be \nsomething better. That I am dust, and laughter, \nand nothing, how can I tell ? That I am not spirit, \nI cannot know, but by some feeling of what spirit \nis ; and by my having that feeling, I must be my- \nself somewhat spiritual. It is nobly said by Jean \nPaul, that man would be altogether vanity, and \nashes, and smoke, upon earth, only that he feels \nas though he were so. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is well said by him. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is. And so we will conclude, with him, \nat those times when the world is empty and noth- \ning to us, that \xe2\x80\x94 O God ! this feeling is our im- \nmortality. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAmen, amen ! \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 95 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. \n\n\n\nAwake, my soul ! pour forth thy praise, \nTo that great Being anthems raise, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat wondrous Architect who said, \n"Be formed," and this great orh was made. \n\nSince first I heard the blissful sound, \xe2\x80\x94 \n" To man my spirit\'s breath is given " ; \n\nI knew, with thankfulness profound^ \nHis sons we are, \xe2\x80\x94 our home is heaven. \xe2\x80\x94 Hafiz. \n\n\n\nMARRAM. \n\nO Oliver ! this is a lovely afternoon. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is, very,. Uncle, this is May-day. We can- \nnot welcome the month along with the boys and \ngirls, with their garlands of flowers, but we can \nalong with Wordsworth, in a verse of his. \n\nFlattered with promise of escape \n\nFrom every hurtful blast, \nSpring takes, sprightly May ! thy shape, \n\nHer loveliest and her last. \n\nUncle, I have been thinking of what we talked \nabout yesterday. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd what have you thought ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat with a mind riot diseased, a holy life is a \n\n\n\n96 EUTHANASY. \n\nlife of hope, and at the end of it, death is a great \nact of hope. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThis is what you mean, is not it, \xe2\x80\x94 that the \nrighteous has hope in his death ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHope, the growth of his life ; for this is quite \nanother thing from the merely wishful state of \nmind that illness may well cause. I will tell you \nwhat I mean, from my experience. When I am \nhappiest, my spirit turns to God of itself. At \nthe gain of a new truth, in the reading of some few \nbooks, at the sight of mountains, in two or three \nsuccessful instances of worldly endeavour, two or \nthree times in hearing of good actions, and some- \ntimes, uncle, in loving you, my delight has been \nso great, that speaking it to God has been a re- \nlief to me. Then, through thanksgiving, my hap- \npiness has grown greater still, but calmer, and \npurified, and with something mysterious blending \nin it, as though it were a foretaste of other higher \nblessedness. I wonder why this was. Perhaps \nit was in this way. Through faith, the hand of \nGod is seen by us ; and so every gift that we \nhave from it reminds us of the infinite stores out \nof which it was given us. But rather, I think, \nthat hope in happiness is an instinctive accom- \npaniment of trust in God. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 97 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nCommonly it accompanies it, and strongly, \nand perhaps always ; and therefore, perhaps nat- \nurally. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThere is a hope in God that is merely despair \nof the world, but there is a hope that comes of \nhaving lived wisely ; and that is the experience \nof a man who has seen on the tree of his life, as \none after another its blossoms opened, how there \nwas on them the dew of God\'s grace ; and so \nwhen the tree begins to be bared in autumn, early \nor late, he does not fear but that it will live and \nbe beautiful again, in that great spring-time that \nwill be followed by no winter. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWe will be grateful to God, then, Oliver, more \nand more ; and so, perhaps, at the last, be quite \ntrustful in him. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat is what I have been wanting to say ; and \nit is what I think to myself, often. Morning and \nevening, in prayer, I will strive to feel God, and \nthe whole day through I will be glad in him, and \nevery pleasure, I will say to myself, is from him. \nSo, through faith, I will see the hand of God \nabove me, and I will see it often, and get used \nto the sight of it ; so that when it shuts upon my \n7 \n\n\n\n98 EUTHANASY. \n\nsoul to withdraw it from the world, I shall not be \nafraid, but glad. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHope it for me, Oliver, and pray for it for me, \nas well as yourself. I wish I may not, \xe2\x80\x94 O, I \nwish I may not go hence in fear ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nFear, uncle ! No, no ! we will not fear. For \nhave not you been happy here, very happy, very \noften ? And for a good man, what is death ? It \nis a door in our Father\'s house, out of one cham- \nber into another ; and to fear to go through it \nwould not only be doubt of what is beyond it, \nbut would argue want of gratitude for what happi- \nness we are now having, which is a thing we will \nnot be guilty of. But, O ! our heavenly destiny is \nprophesied in this, that thankfulness for what we \nhave makes us more trustful of what we may \nhave. We count up our pleasures in the Divine \npresence ; and then, as we look up to heaven, it \nis as though God were smiling upon us, and en- \ncouraging us to think that our earthly joys are \nonly the beginning of delight. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSeveral times, in prayer, I have had such mo- \nments of holy confidence. I have often feared \nthey might be presumptuousness ; but I hope your \ninterpretation of what they mean is correct ; and \nI think it is. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n99 \n\n\n\nATJBIN. \n\nO uncle ! all our better moods are prophetic \nof eternity for us. Justice feels itself rooted \nmore deeply than the mountains are ; it is of the \nvery essence of love to be consciously everlast- \ning ; and faith feels as though it could die death \nafter death, and be only the nigher God with \nevery change. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nAnd God would never let these holiest affec- \ntions of our nature be false witnesses to us about \nour destiny. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nO, no ! For it is by the prompting of God \nthey speak, and in the name of God ; and they \nare worthy of all belief. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd we will believe them ; we will. And we \nwill thank God for every way by which our faith \ncan be strengthened. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAfter achieving a hard duty, after a great act \nof resignation or of forgiveness, after a very ear- \nnest prayer, and after a kind action, I have some- \ntimes had a strange, mysterious feeling, as though \nsome great revelation were about to be made to \nme, \xe2\x80\x94 such a calm in the soul, as though God \nwere about to speak in it. Draw nigh to God \nand he will draw nigh to you ; \xe2\x80\x94 this is corrobo- \n\n\n\n100 EUTHANASY. \n\nrated highly and solemnly, out of the soul\'s own \nexperience. There are, \xe2\x80\x94 yes, there are mo- \nments permitted us, that are an earnest of the \ncertainty and the way in which our souls will be \ndrawn into heaven, at last. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n101 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. \n\nTo some hath God his word addressed v \n\n\'Mid symbols of his ire, \nAnd made his presence manifest \n\nIn whirlwind, storm, and fire ; \nTracing with burning lines of flame, \nOn trembling hearts, his holy name. \xe2\x80\x94 Anon. \n\nNow for my life, it is a miracle of thirty years, which to relate were not \na history, but a piece of poetry, and would sound to common ears like a \nfable. \xe2\x80\x94 Thomas Browne. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nMy birthday I make a thanksgiving of to God, \nthat it was when it was ; and so I do of my birth- \nplace, very devoutly, as it was not to be farther \nwest than Europe. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMy dear Oliver, do not thank God with a res- \nervation. But I know you do not mean it. Be- \nsides, you will feel as though you had been born \nvery far towards the west, if you will think of \nyourself as a native of what St. Clement wrote \nof, from Rome, as the worlds beyond the ocean. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nBorn in a Christian era, and among Christians, \nnineteen out of twenty of the human race have \nnot been ; but I was. And as I was not to be \none of the earliest disciples, nor a friend of St. \n\n\n\n102 EUTHANASY. \n\nJohn\'s, nor a convert of St. Paul\'s, I am glad \nthat I was born when I was, and not sooner. \nFor, with my nature, it would have been ill for \nme to have been born within the unmitigated in- \nfluence of St. Augustine, of Gregory the Great, \nor of John Calvin. There are scales that will \nweigh to the five-hundredth part of a grain ; \nbut for use they require the very temperature of \nthe room to be minded in which they are, and \nin any wind they would never balance at all. \nNow, I think that in the religious struggles of \nthe sixteenth century, and in the politics of the \nseventeenth, my judgment might perhaps have \nbeen false to me. I do think, that, if I had been \nborn twenty years earlier, I should, as a spirit, \nhave grown up like some sea-side trees, that \nbranch out and blossom only on one side. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nPrejudice blights most of us. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo it does. And instead of our charities blos- \nsoming all round us, they do so only towards cer- \ntain quarters ; and they are the quarters whence \nblow the breezes that flattered us in our opinions \nor interests. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nPerhaps it is more so with ourselves than we \nthink ; we will hope it is not, and we will endeav- \nour it may not be so at all. \n\n\n\nETTTHANASY. 103 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI congratulate myself that my birth was when \nit was ; for I might have been born in Greece, \nand yet not in Athens ; in Athens, and yet not \nhave been a Christian ; in the first century, I \nmight have been born a Christian, but have lived \nall my life as a sand-digger, at Rome, in what \nare now called the Catacombs. But I was born \ninto a richer world than Milton was, or than Jere- \nmy Taylor, or than Newton ; for I was born into \na world that was become the more glorious for \ntheir having felt, and thought, and spoken in it. \n\nMATtHAM. \n\nYou knew the name of Jesus early, and so you \nknew, as a boy, pure religion, and what truth \nthere is in philosophy, and what is best in the re- \nsults of science. But this you know. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, and I thank God for it. And next \nafter early baptism in the name of Jesus Christ, I \nthank God for my mother-tongue\'s having been \nEnglish ; for by this I was made heir to the mind \nof Shakspeare ; owner of a key to the treasure- \nhouse of Locke\'s thought ; one acquainted with \nSir Thomas Browne\'s worth and oddity ; free \nof a church-sitting under Isaac Barrow ; a fishing \ncompanion of Isaac Walton\'s ; and one to differ \nfrom Bishop Ken, and yet to love him. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo, Oliver, I did not speak. \n\n\n\n104 ET7THANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe house of my birth was in the outskirts of \na borough ; and the front-door opened into the \ntown, and the back-door into the country. This \nwas a happy thing for my boyhood, because town \nlife made me think, and the country made me \nfeel. The town was like an atmosphere of \nthought when I went into it, and the country, \nwhen I was alone in it, was an ever-changing in- \nfluence upon me, \xe2\x80\x94 like a presence of awe one \nminute, and another minute, like a joy melting \ninto tears ; and then, again, it was as though my \nsoul felt itself whispered by the breezes, " Come, \nlet us away into the heavens, and worship to- \ngether." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, you make me feel that I have many \nreasons for thanking God that I have never ac- \nknowledged yet. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI think it much that I have lived in some of \nthe riper years of Wordsworth, and Thomas Car- \nlyle, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. It is not a lit- \ntle to have learned what it is that Orville Dewey \npreaches. It is something, too, that I have been \na reader of Alfred Tennyson, and that, from \nover the Atlantic, I have heard Longfellow sing \nhis ballads. And it is as though I could die, \nmore confident of not being forgotten before God, \n\n\n\ni \n\n\n\nEUTHANAST. 105 \n\nfor having been of the same generation with \nJohn Foster, and Thomas Arnold, and Henry- \nWare. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHow do you mean ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIn the presence of a good man, we feel the \nbetter ; and the better our mood is, the nigher \nGod feels to us. So that, in thinking over the \nsaints who have been of our generation, and half- \nknown to us, as it were, we ourselves feel the \nholier, in our capacities at least, and so as though \nGod were more surely with us. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd with us he is always, from birth to death ; \nand in every moment of our lives, as much as in \nthe first. Oliver, you look much better than you \ndid. I wish you, and now I begin to expect for \nyou, many happy returns of this day. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThank you, uncle. But there are many days \nI should be happier to see return than this, I \nthink. I do not know though. But I will tell \nyou what I mean. The birthday of the soul is \ngreater than that of the body. And, besides, if a \nbirthday is reckoned as what life was given us on, \nthen I have had many birthdays. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHow have you, Oliver ? \n\n\n\n106 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI will tell you, uncle. One October afternoon \na person was drowning, and I went to his assist- \nance. \n\nMAR.HAM. \n\nWas he saved ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. But when I was exhausted, which \nI was very soon, I was caught by an eddy in the \nriver, and I sunk. \n\nMARHA3I. \n\nHow were you saved ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe river was very rapid, and it rolled me on \nto a sand-bank, off which I was dragged on to \nthe grass. When I was drawn in under the \nwater, I struggled hard, but I could not rise. I \nwas quite aware of my danger ; but I w r as as calm \nas I am now. I believed my life was ending, \nand I thought, " Well, it is strange that I should \nhave lived all these years of education, and en- \ndurance, and hope, only to be drowned." Then \nI seemed to see, at a glance, all my life, from \nmy earliest consciousness to the moment w 7 hen I \nleaped into the deep water. It was as though \nthere w r ere a presence in me of all I had ever \ndone, or said, or thought, or known. I remem- \nbered little things of my infancy, and I saw the \nmeadow r s, and the trees, and the sky, just as they \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 107 \n\nhad last looked to me. Then I could not lift my \nhands any longer; and I felt as though sinking \nthrough an endless depth of feathers. I thought, \n" Now this is death. God receive my spirit ! " \nAnd he did, for I became insensible ; and I had \nno care of it myself, but God gave me my spirit \nback again. I was swept on to the sand-bank ; \nmy body was seen lying there, and it was drawn \nout of the water, and through the reeds, into the \nmeadow. And now I feel, that, when I breathed \nagain, it was with a life given me anew. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMy brave, good Oliver ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhen I was a school-boy, there was a build- \ning on fire, and the doors of it could not be open- \ned. I climbed up to one of the windows, and \nbroke it, and got in through it. I let myself drop \non to the floor, and groped my way along the \nwall to the doors, which I unbolted, and then I \nfainted ; for I had not been able to breathe, for \nthe smoke. And just then the flames burst \nout. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOh! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMany other narrow escapes of my life I have \nhad ; once was while I was bathing, and another \ntime was in a storm at sea. \n\n\n\n108 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYour life having been renewed to you so often \nand so strangely, I do not wonder at your not \nfeeling the beginning of it as so very special. \nAnd, indeed, when we think of what sleep is, it \nis as though every morning our souls have what \nis a resurrection out of more than oblivion. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI will tell you another strange thing that hap- \npened to me. I had done, with some effort, \nand not without earnest prayers, what I consider \nto have been the most righteous action of my life. \nBut by it I had alienated the only two or three \nfriends I had, who could help me in any way. \nBesides this, I had intrusted a man in distress \nwith all my little money, as a loan for a short \ntime, and he had died suddenly, without leaving \nany thing for my repayment, though, if he had \nlived a few days longer, I should certainly have \nhad my money. I had worked day and night for \na week, in the hope of being a few shillings the \nbetter. But my labor had been all in vain. I \nwas penniless ; I was without a friend to speak \nto ; and I was weak in mind, from grief, and \nanxiety, and hard work, and no sleep. My self- \ncontrol was failing me ; and I was going away \nfrom the town I was in, with I cannot tell what \nother notions, but certainly with the feeling that I \nwas never to return to it again, when a man laid \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 109 \n\nhis hand on my shoulder, and said, \xe2\x80\x94 "I want to \nspeak with you, and you must go back with me \nto your lodgings, for I have come fifteen miles \nto see you. But how ill you are ! You seem as \nthough in a high fever. Would your surgeon \nthink it right you should be out of doors ? " I \nanswered, that I should be well soon ; for I could \nnot tell him that I was too poor to have medical \nhelp. The man wanted to consult me on a case \nof conscience ; for he said, that, somehow, he \nthought he could trust me. While talking over \nhis affairs, I forgot my own ; and by using argu- \nments to strengthen his will, I got courage my- \nself. When he left me, I fell asleep. And that \nnight I slept long and well, which I had not done \nat all for five nights before. When I awoke in \nthe morning, I was quite another man from what \nI was the day before ; and that day, there opened \nto me the prospect of getting a little employ- \nment. My reason was failing me, and would \naltogether have failed me, but for that man\'s hav- \ning come to me. What was it brought him to \nme, at the very last moment he could have found \nme ; for in another minute I should have been \nout of the town ? It was not chance ; it was \nProvidence. And if I am in possession of my \nreason now, it is because my reason was, in that \ntime of need, renewed in me, and made mine, as \nmuch afresh as when it was created in my soul at \nfirst. \n\n\n\n1 10 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMy poor, dear Oliver ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOnce I did what was against the will of every \nperson I was connected with, and nearly all of \nthem disliked me for it. So that I did not do it \neasily, as you may suppose. The hardness of \nmy struggle was great. It was not without tears, \nand an agony of distress. Very painful it was. \nO my God, what I felt ! And well I might \nfeel ; for freedom of conscience was beginning in \nme. A nobler birthday for me that season was, \nthan the day on which merely my lungs got free \nto play. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is a birth that not many of us ever have, \nOliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhen a man, for conscience\' sake, does what \nhis acquaintance will hate him for, 4hen his soul \nhas its birth ; and till he does this, or is ready \nto do it when wanted, his mind is not a soul. \nWhat is meant by our having been born on such \na day ? That that day we began to draw breath \nfor ourselves, and to live in and through our \nbodily functions. So, for a long while, our \nminds live in the minds of others about us, \nonly feeling what others feel, and wrongly per- \nhaps, as well as what is called respectably. It \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. Ill \n\nis the birthday of a soul, when a man finds him- \nself listening to conscience, as though to God \ncalling him, when he follows the voice, when he \ngoes out from his father\'s house, and from all that \nis dear to flesh and blood, and goes, like Abra- \nham, not knowing whither. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut to God, and nigher to God, he does go \ncertainly. Ay, at such a time, such a man\'s soul \nis born anew within him. And the angels, as \nthey look at him from heaven, see that he is be- \ncome not of this world. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are, then, some days of our lives that \nare more to be thought of than our birthdays. \nOur birth is a beginning only ; and it is a com- \nmencement of what may perhaps prove perdition. \nBut these other days are what man gets to be an \nheir of heaven in. The third heaven St. Paul \nwas in once. One beyond another the heavens \nare, and differing from one another in glory, like \nstars. And in this world there are those, who, as \nchildren, were such as there is a kingdom of \nheaven for ; who, as youths, lived up to the holy \nheight of the dwellers in the second heaven ; and \nwho, as men, have days in which they are born \ninto fitness for one heaven one year, and for a still \nhigher heaven the next year. \n\n\n\n1 12 ETJTHANASY. \n\n\n\nMAKHAItf. \n\n\n\nGod give us such days, and many of them ! \nBut eveiy day might be such, if we wished it ; \nbut we do not ; we are not morally strong enough \nto wish it. The day on which one man is \ncrowned, another man has to stand begging in the \nstreets. And the sun shines on the contrast, and \nthere is no help for it in the sunshine, nor in the \npoor man himself. But it is otherwise in the \nworld that is shone upon by the sun of righteous- \nness. For in that world, and in the light of that \nsun, any man may make himself what he will, \xe2\x80\x94 \na brother of St. Paul\'s, a friend of Christ\'s, a \nruler elected to be over many things, an heir of \nsalvation, and a son of God. But much of this \ngrace and blessedness we do not receive, because \nwe do not ask. I believe this, but not enough. \nLord ! help my unbelief. O, it is sad to think \nhow seldom the voice of God is listened for, \nthough there are times and ways in which it makes \nitself heard by the most careless ! When the \nvoices of pleasure are silenced about us, then we \nare wretched, and we cannot help hearkening for \nwhat comfort God may speak to us. And through \nthe lips of a friend\'s dead body there comes to us, \nout of the unseen world, a warning we cannot \nhelp minding for a time. And sometimes we are \ntouched so strangely, by words and by little things \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 113 \n\nwhich happen to us, that we cannot but confess \nGod\'s power in them. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhen I was seven years old, I heard a hymn \nread from the pulpit ; and there was one verse of \nit that thrilled me so, that I could fancy myself \nhearing it being read now. I remember it to this \nday, though I have never heard the hymn, nor \nseen it, since. \n\nYouth, when devoted to the Lord, \n\nIs pleasing in his eyes ; \nA flower, when offered in the bud, \n\nIs no vain sacrifice. \n\nWith the invitation of that hymn, it was as though \nI was caught up into a heaven of resolution and \nhope. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd that, I suppose, was one of the earlier of \nthose days in which you were born again. Well, \nit is a great day on which a man first draws \nbreath ; but it is quite as great a day for him, \nperhaps, on which he first draws his breath in \nhope or in fear. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, I shall never forget my finding a ser- \nmon of Channing\'s. I read it, unknowing of the \nauthor\'s fame, and I think from the beginning to \nthe end without once looking off the pages. And \nwhen I had read the discourse, I said, " The \n8 \n\n\n\n1 14 EUTHANASY. \n\nFather of spirits be thanked for this ! for now I \ncan understand the Gospel, and now I shall be \nable to grow in grace." This was on one of the \ngreater days of my life, one August afternoon, \nwhen I was a youth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYour spiritual experiences interest me very \nmuch. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nThe other day, I was looking over some notes \nof my writing in a book, during a time of great \ndistress with me. And I saw what I wrote one \nnight after very earnest prayer, and perhaps the \nmost effectual, fervent prayer I ever prayed. It \nis to me a record now of the beginning of a new \nera in my life, as a soul, a suffering soul, and a \nsoul to be perfected. After the date of the day \nof the month and the year, these are the words : \n\xe2\x80\x94 " This night have I seen God for the first \ntime." At that time of agony, in the earnestness \nof my prayer, I felt the presence of God with me, \nalmost as though I saw it. I have now a feeling \nof what I felt then. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, it is strange how the feelings of some days \nof our lives do last on in us. Yet it is not so \nstrange, either ; for we are in ourselves what those \nfew days make us. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 115 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOnce I was not, and now I am. This is a \nthing to think of ; it is a great, great thing. Up \nand down Syria the patriarchs wandered, and \nin their tents talked with their wives, in the val- \nleys pastured their cattle, and here and there \nbuilt altars, for sacrificing on to God ; but in their \nway of life there was no part for me. At the \nbuilding of the Pyramids, laborers crowded, and \ntoiled, and shouted ; and there was great earnest- \nness ; but there was no feeling of it for me. The \nhundred gates of Thebes were opened and shut ; \nbut there was no going in or out through them \nfor me. Thousands of millions of men and \nwomen were born, and loved one another, and \ndied ; but in all that kindness, there was no share \nfor me. Rome grew, and grew vast, and decay- \ned ; but there was never any place in it for me. \nIn England, Britons dwelt together ; and then \nSaxons sat round blazing hearths, and Norwe- \ngians and Normans had houses, in which they en- \njoyed themselves ; and age after age men talked \nwith one another, and worked together, and rest- \ned together, and were merry and sad together ; \nand I was not anywhere. The sun shone on this \nvery spot, and it was cloudy here, and it rained, \nand just as it does now time wore on ; but I was \nnot in it. And what thousands of years birds \nhad been singing, and the flowers had been flow- \n\n\n\n116 EUTHANASY. \n\nering, and rivers had been flowing, and day and \nnight had been, while I was nowhere ! Nowhere ? \nAlive I was not. But I was a thought in the \nmind of God ; and now I have been made, and \nnow I am what Providence has care of. But \nwhen I think of the time, the eternity, past in \nwhich I was not, and then think of the day I was \nborn, I feel fresh from the hands of God ; I feel \nas Adam may have done when he got up from \nthe earth, and knew himself that \xe2\x96\xa0 minute made \nout of the dust of it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFearfully and wonderfully we are made. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYears, hundreds of years, thousands of years, \nhundreds of thousands of years, for infinite ages, \nI had no being, though God was meaning I should \nhave ; then, a few years ago, he let my life begin, \nin his gift of a child to my father and mother. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, but it is a wonderful life, this of ours, when \nwe do think what it is ! Every child at its birth \nis an Elnathan, a gift of God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd it is not for God to give and not to care. \nSometimes my soul is in darkness and mourns, \nand it is as though God were far from me ; but he \nnever is, and I know he is not. For God is not \nwith us less one day than another, though there \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 117 \n\nare seasons in which our souls can feel him more. \nYes, I know that what God has been to me at \nany time, he is always ; and he is more to me \nthan what I know, infinitely more. O, there are \ndays that call to me out of the past, and one asks \nsolemnly, " Dost thou not remember having been \nborn again, and was not that change God with \nthee ? " It was ; and what I am now is because \nGod is with me. And another asks, "Wert \nthou not as one dead once, and art thou not alive \nagain ? " Yes, and my soul\'s going out of the \nbody will not be more terrific than many passages \nin my life have been. The day of my death will \nnot be stranger for me than several days have \nbeen that I have lived through, through God ; \nand so for which I have come to know God the \nbetter and the more happily. And I shall die, \nbut only to know the more blessedly that God is \nthe Father of us spirits. \n\n\n\n1 18 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. \n\nMysterious Night ! when our first parent knew \nThee from report divine, and heard thy name, \nDid he not tremble for this lovely frame, \nThis glorious canopy of light and blue? \nYet, \'neath a curtain of translucent dew, \nBathed in the rays of the great setting flame, \nHesperus with the host of heaven came, \nAnd lo ! creation widened in man\'s view. \nWho could have thought such darkness lay concealed \nWithin thy beams, O Sun ! or who could find, \n"Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect, stood revealed, \nThat to such countless orbs thou mad\'st us blind ? \nWhy do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? \nIf light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? \n\nJ. Blanco White. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nPersons who have no faith themselves cannot \nunderstand in what way those who have it are the \nbetter for it. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nBut whether we know it or not, we are all of \nus mysteries to ourselves and to one another. In \nour souls there is what is connected with God, \nand through that channel what may come, or \nhow we may be quickened, it is not for us \xe2\x80\x94 no, \nnor for the angels \xe2\x80\x94 to say. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is very likely that hereafter some very slight- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 119 \n\nest help or change may be enough to make us en- \njoy ourselves a thousand times more than we have \never done. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are landscapes by Paul Potter which are \na delight to look at. But the Dutch scenery that \nhe painted from, and painted exactly, is ugly and \nvery dull ; or rather I should say, it is so to most \npersons ; but to Paul Potter it was not. Now I \ncan believe, if some little want were supplied in \nmy spirit, that the whole earth would be glorified \nto me, and God be seen throughout it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so God be all in all, even to the eye. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYou remind me of another thing which I have \nremarked. A man has looked at a scene some- \nwhere, and thought it to be very pretty ; but when \nhe sees it as a landscape in some great master\'s \npainting, he feels it to be spiritual, and his soul is \nthe better for the sight. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIs it so, Oliver ? Well, how do you account \n\nfor it ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe artist is an interpreter of the earth\'s look, \nand such a helper we most of us need ; just as \nthe heathen cannot understand the Gospel without \nits being explained to their minds. However, \n\n\n\n120 EUTHANASY. \n\nthe more godly we are, the more we shall feel \nthe spirit of God in all God\'s works, and in all \nhis workings with us. The lily looked to Christ \nmore, and something diviner, than it does to us, \nwhen he spoke of it as being so arrayed in glory \nby God. God so clothing the grass of the field ! \n\xe2\x80\x94 there is a way of thinking of that which ought \nto clothe our souls in faith. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFaith, perfect faith ! That is the garment \nwhich in the wearing would make life be like a \nhigh festival, and this earth like the house of the \nLord, and our thoughts like Christ with us. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat is what I am sure of; and from my being \nsure of it, my little faith serves me more than it \notherwise would. Troubles and pleasures and \ndeath are about me. And they are about me like \na blessed home. Though this is what I do not \nsee ; but I do know it. So, in whatever my cir- \ncumstances are, I can feel at home, and not like \na prisoner ; just as in this house I am sure that I \n*am at home, even in the dark, and when I can \nonly feel things about me and not see them. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhatever our darkness, God is in it ; and \nthrough faith in him, if we have not light at once, \nwe have peace. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 121 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nDeath comes to us in the dark, and so he is \ndreadful to many men ; but to the saint he is not. \nFor though the Christian cannot see, yet he feels \nwhat the look of death must be ; and rightly, for \nin the light of heaven death looks divinely, and is \none of the angels of God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI have been thinking that the fear of death is \nfrom thinking too much of one\'s self. At the last \nhour we will look up to God, and then death will \ncome upon us as though straight from God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nGod is in the world and in all things more \nplainly than I can see ; but I can trust in what \nChrist saw. O, there is a song of triumph over \nour human nature, which day unto day is said \nabout the earth, and which night unto night is \nchanted, and which the morning-stars sing to- \ngether in for joy ! The song itself I cannot hear, \nbut the joy of it I can believe in, and I do, and \nI will. So, at the last, I will feel as though un- \nderneath me the earth were glad, and as though \nthe heavens were bending towards me from above, \nand as though there were joy among the angels at \nseeing in me what to them is birth immortal, \nthough we mortals call it death. \n\n\n\n122 ETJTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. \n\nThe tree \nSucks kindlier nature from a soil enriched \nBy its own fallen leaves ; and man is made \nIn heart and spirit from deciduous hopes \nAnd things that seem to perish. \xe2\x80\x94 Henry Taylor. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nYou draw a deep breath, and fold your hands, \nand drop them a little, and sigh. What is it for, \nuncle ? \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nIt is an Eastern proverb, that the recollection \nof youth is a sigh. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd so it may be in the tent of a misbeliever, \nand not without reason, with a man whose hands \nshake so that he cannot hold the lance, the tip of \nwhich was once protection for him, and bread for \nhim, and glory, and gold, and the leadership of a \ntribe. But your Arabic proverb ought to be an \nuntruth in England. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, the Gospel saves old age from being \ngloomy in itself; but there are past pleasures \nthat are a sadness to think of. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 123 \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nThen they ought not to be, and in themselves \nthey are not. With you, uncle, the recollection \nof youth ought to be quite another thing than a \nsigh. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is John Wilson who says, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow wild and dim this life appears ! \n\nOne long, deep, heavy sigh, \nWhen o\'er our eyes, half closed in tears, \nThe images of former years \n\nAre faintly glittering by. \n\nAUBIN. \nAnd falsely, if they make a Christian sad. Old \nmen get from one another the habit of sighing \nover what is gone. What John Wilson wrote \nabout a buried saint, we ought to say about youth \nwhen it is dead and gone, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe body in the grave is laid, \nIts beauty in our hearts. \n\nAnd it is in the feeling of that beauty, that old \nmen ought the more to hope for immortality. I \nsay, uncle, that remembered joys are abiding \njoys ; for I am a Christian. But if I had no \nhope of heaven, then my memory would be like \na charnel-house, and would be what I should not \nlike to look into ; for then, in its chambers, all \nrecollections of youth and happiness would be \npainful ; for they would be forms of perished \n\n\n\n124 EUTHANASY. \n\npleasures ; and to think of them would be like \nopening a friend\'s coffin, only to see the body rot. \nBut to Christian feeling, the remembrance of early \ndelight is like some foretaste which has been had \nof the blessedness of heaven. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWith me, Oliver, the long, long past was so \nhappy ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd is become so poetical. To your mind \nnow, the rod is what might have blossomed in \nthe nursery any morning ; and a whipping at \nschool is to you now as though it had been an \nemphasis of delight, which I do not think it ever \nwas. What you are, you feel yourself to be ; \nbut what you think you once were, that you never \nwere. You should be thankful, uncle, that the \npast does become poetical ; but you should not \ntherefore let the present feel melancholy. In the \nsunset of life, the path behind looks the more \ngolden, the farther off it is ; but it only looks so, \nfor it is not so really. Besides, uncle, there \nmight be eyes in which your early would seem \nless happy than your present life. It is only to \nme that what befell me in my boyhood is so \nglorious. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTrue! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 125 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhat troubles we have, we feel ; but what are \nover, we do not even remember. For nearly \nevery misfortune is like Janus, and has two faces ; \nthe one with which it comes is terrific to look at, \nbut the face with which it passes away is that of \nan angel of God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, more than once, at a sudden appear- \nance in my house, I have been frightened, and \nhid my face, and prayed God to hide the evil \nfrom me. And more and more dreadful it seemed \nto grow. But when I prayed for strength to \nbear the look of the calamity, then it became \nbearable, and slowly it grew bright ; and at its \nvanishing there was a glory left behind. And so \nwhat I prayed against at first, proved at last to \nhave been an angel with me, entertained una- \nwares.\' \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, what terror you felt, you do not feel \nnow ; but the joy thrills on in you still. Of all \nlife past, there was no one happy day the sun- \nshine of which does not brighten us now, when \nwe look back ; but the clouds of the gloomy \ntimes are vanished as though they had never been. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, it is so. \n\n\n\n126 ETJTHANASY. \n\n\n\nATJBIN. \n\nPleasures are pleasures for ever. You, uncle, \nare happy in the happiness of the past, in all that \nyou remember of it, in the holidays, and sports, \nand adventures of your childhood, in the suc- \ncesses of your youth, in many a night\'s and mid- \nnight\'s conversation with learned men and dear \nfriends, and in those watchful hours, when, from \nthe firmament of thought, the greater lights first \nreached you with their glorious rays. Your \ntimes of delight are a delight to remember ; but \nyour seasons of suffering are no pain to recollect. \nThat they existed, you know ; but what they \nwere, you cannot at all feel. Anxious nights, \nbitter disappointments, great sufferings, you have \nhad ; but of very few of them is there any of the \npainfulness in you now. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is what argues the goodness of God very \nstrongly, \xe2\x80\x94 that our pleasures are lived by us \nover and over again, but not our pains, or at most, \nnot many of them. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNone of what I have been speaking of, for I \nhave been meaning such troubles as are over. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOur friends we grieve for many days and years \nafter the day of their loss. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 127 \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThat is because they are not a past, but a con- \ntinual loss, for a long while. But of your friends \nwho died many years ago, the very burials are \nnot sorrowful memories now. \n\nMARHAM* \n\nVery dreadful life would be, if grief for the \ndeparted never wore out ; but it does, and so as \nto leave no feeling of what it was. Or rather, \nI think, our departed friends become to us what \nwe cannot weep for. And the longer we have \nbeen weeping, the more peacefully at last we \ngive over ; for those whom we mourn the most \nare they who become to us the most saintly to \nthink of. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYes, they do. I had a dear friend waste away \nin my sight, week by week, and die. The agony \nof this, I know, was great ; but I have no feel- \ning of what it was, now. From me, at the time, \nhe* seemed to disappear in darkness. But my \neyes were blinded with tears ; and they were the \ndarkness ; for now, as I look back, it seems to \nme as though he had vanished like an angel of \nlight, and as though he had left a track of glory \nalong the years during which I knew him. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo, then, you will have me think that it is my \nremembrances of youth which have been bright- \n\n\n\n128 EUTHANASY. \n\n/ \n\nening, and not my latter years which have been \ndarkening ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes ; and I think this, too. In your mind \nthere have sprung up, from time to time, thoughts, \nof which you reaped the harvest in joy, but the \nseeds of which were sown in you in tears. \nThese thoughts you remember, and the joy with \nwhich you had them first. But you have no re- \nmembrance of how they first began to grow in \nyou, in what was a time to weep. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo, no ! We have not the same remembrance \nof pain as of pleasure. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe recollection of pleasure is itself pleasure ; \nbut the recollection of pain is not pain. And if \nthe suffering be quite over, the memory of it is \nmore than agreeable ; it is blessed. For, to a \nChristian, the after-taste of the cup of sorrow is \nlike a draught from the river of water of life. \nBut indeed, excepting of sin, all recollections are \nmore or less pleasant ; some like a thrill of the \nnerves, and some like the reading of poetry ; while \nothers make mournful music in us, and others, \nagain, are like the holy fervor of a thanksgiving. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe past, then, may sadden us, and what one \nnow is may sigh for what one once was ; for you \n\n\n\nEITTHANASY. 129 \n\nsay that there are recollections that may make a \nmourning in us. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nMournful music in us, uncle. And there are \nmasses for the dead, which, to listen to, are full of \nthe spirit of immortality ; and so ought all an old \nman\'s memories to be. My life I would not \nlive over again ; would you yours ? Why, then, \nshould you sorrow for what you would not wish \nto have ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFew and evil are the days of the years of our \nlives, say the Scriptures. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nThe Scriptures say it ? No, they do not. \nThey only say that Jacob said it. And when \nhe did say it, he did not mean that life was evil \nwith him, when seven years of service seemed \nonly like a week, for the love he had to Rachel. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhen he said that his days had been evil, I \nsuppose he meant that life, as a whole, felt so to \nhis aged feelings. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nAbout life, my dear uncle, whatever Jacob \nmay have said and felt, you ought not to feel and \nsay the same ; for though of the same flesh as \nthe patriarch, you are not of the same spirit ; for \nevery man, in Christ, is a new creature. \n9 \n\n\n\n130 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou are right, Oliver. And I was wrong in \nusing as my own Jacob\'s last words about life. \nAnd so you say, I think, there is a fashion of \nspeaking mournfully about old age ; and of speak- \ning comes feeling. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nGood and evil are the lot of old age, and so \nthey are of youth. Does it seem now as though \nyouth had been all good ? Is not it, then, in \nsome things because early life has resulted in \nabiding good ? And, perhaps, behind you many \nof the points that catch the light of heaven most \nblessedly are what were once shuddered at as \nmountains of hardship to cross. \n\nMARHAM. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nNo, no ! When one thinks of it, it cannot \nhave been. And early life never was what it \nnow looks. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nPardon me, uncle, but I think it was. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou do ! Then I have not understood you. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, you have, I think. "What I said, \nor more certainly, what I meant, was this. Youth \nwas what it looks to have been ; but in the spend- \ning, it never felt what you fancy it did. Ay, \nyouth would be something, and a something not \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 131 \n\nof this earth, if it were what it feels to you. But \nthat would be for a boy to have at ten years of \nage the mind that grows in a man only at seventy. \nTo all men, youth would be a little more nearly \nwhat it looks, if there were more faith in them \nwhile it is passing. And there is a greatness of \nfaith, in which it would be possible for a man to \nwear his old age like a vesture, which unem- \nbodied spirits might, some of them, envy. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLord ! increase our faith. St. Augustine said, \nthat he would not change places with any angel, \nif only he could attain the station assigned to \nman. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO that statical ! And yet when we have \nreached it, and when we are ensphered within it, \neverlastingly, this very day will be a fond mem- \nory with us. For it will be a pleasure, in the \ncity of God, to think how we used to die daily \nin the earth. These are our latter days, and the \nends of the world are upon us now ; but in heaven \nany recollection of our present feelings will be a \nzest to our immortality, and \'what will make us \nlook up to God and thank him. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd for me, this may be before the year ends \nits round. \n\n\n\n132 ETJTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is more likely to be for me, uncle ; that is, if \nI am worthy of heaven on my dying. And for us \nboth it will be before Saturn finishes one\' circuit \nmore. And then we shall be untouched by what is \nplanetary, \xe2\x80\x94 by heat and cold, and the changes of \nday and night. And the light of the sun and moon \nwill be nothing to us when we are citizens of the \nNew Jerusalem ; and on our becoming immortal, \ndays and years, the shadow that moves on the \nface of the dial, the hammer that strikes the hour, \nand the marvellous clock-work of the stars them- \nselves, all will be nothing to us. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd then the last enemy will be nothing to us ; \nfor death we shall have undergone, and found to \nbe birth. O God ! may our certainty of what \ndeath will prove to be strengthen us against what \nit seems to be. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd it ought to do so. For in itself life was \nbetter than what it felt in our passing through. In \nyour youth, uncle, no doubt you were troubled \nabout many things, and you took more thought \nabout the morrow than was right, and you were as \nanxious as though of your life you had the whole \nguidance, and God had none ; and so, through \nlittleness of faith, the eyes of your understanding \nwere withholden, so that you could not see things \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 133 \n\nabout you as they might have been seen, and \nas they look now that you have passed through \nthem. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNow I see them beautiful with the light of God \nabout them ; but that light I had little feeling for \nonce. Ay, and I must remember that in these \nold days of mine the light of God is on all things \nround me, as much as it ever was. Faith, more \nfaith, is my great want. The Lord is my sal- \nvation ; why or what should I fear ? \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI will think of the past, and so be brave for \ntime to come. Adversities laid hold of me, but \nI said, Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth ; \nand so they became angels with me unawares. \nAnd moving in remembered scenes, what are \nthose forms I see so beautiful and smiling, and \nwith the light of heaven shining from them ? \nThey are friends, who, the last time I saw them, \nwere bodies wasted and convulsed ; rather, so \nthey seemed to me to be ; but now they are to \nme what in their agonies they were just becom- \ning, \xe2\x80\x94 they are saints of heaven. Sufferers they \nwere, and now they are saints ; and so I think of \nthem, though at first after losing them my thoughts \nof them were as painful as their last days were. \nIt is not the past has changed, but myself; for I \njudge of it more wisely now than I did. \n\n\n\n134 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nEven while passing, life was more beautiful than \nwe know of ; and so, in coming, death, without \ndoubt, is diviner than we feel. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nWeek by week I am nearer the end of my life, \nand time pushes me on towards death, out of one \nday into another. But after prayer in an evening, \nI have a thought that comes into my mind with a \nfeeling as though it were sent ; and it calms me \nwith a peace not of this world, and it says to me, \n"It is through night that the day begins anew, and \nit is through death that life will be thine afresh." \nMisfortunes seem to call to me from places where \nI met them, " Evils we were at the first look, but \nin thine eye of faith we changed into ministers of \nGod ; and so will death." And there are solemn \nseasons, in which, from heaven, holy and departed \nfriends make their witness felt within me, "Our \nlast agonies did but make us immortal ; for death \nis Christ\'s, and Christ is God\'s." \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 135 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. \n\nNow this is why, in my old age, \n\nNo sorrow clouds rhy brow, \nNo grief comes near me, and no cares \n\nDisturb me here below. \nSerenity broods o\'er my mind, \n\nFor I daily pray to Heaven, \nThat when the hour of death arrives \n\nMy sins may be forgiven. \nNo anxious fears disturb my breast, \n\nMy days serenely roll; \nI tarry till it pleaseth God \n\nTo heaven to take my soul. \xe2\x80\x94Jean Michel. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are some who grow to be men, and \nalmost old, without the knowledge of suffering. \nAnd their thanks to God are for their many \npleasures ; and for their sorrows, when they come \nto thank him, they are not the men they were. \nFor, in the mean while, they have eaten of the \ntree of the knowledge of good and evil, and found \nEden vanish from about them, and the world feel \nlike thorns, and thistles, and dust, and a curse. \nAnd there are some who do not get the better of \nthis sense of desolation ; for they are angered by \nit, and not humbled. But those who, having lost \nthe feeling of Eden, get that of earth\'s being \nGethsemane, soon find life rise heavenwards under \n\n\n\n136 . EUTRA.NASY. \n\nthem, like a Mount of Olives ; and when they \nlook up on high in the thought of Christ\'s ascen- \nsion, heavenly longings rise within them ; and \ntheir souls clouds cannot darken any longer, and \nwhat is commonly the darkest of all is to them a \ncloud of glory, for it is what will receive their \nsouls out of earthly sight. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, sometimes a man may be thirty or forty \nyears old before his first grief; and when it does \ncome, what a change it makes in the tone of his \nmind ! \n\nATJBIN. \n\nA great change, if the sufferer proves to be a \nsaint ; and a great one, too, if the sufferer becomes \na reprobate concerning the faith. For affliction \nseparates men to the right and to the left, like \nChrist from the throne of his glory. For I have \nknown some who seemed to worship God zeal- \nously ; but it was not the true God, but the God of \ntheir good fortunes. What they worshipped in \nwas founded upon the sands of pleasure ; and so, \nwhen the floods of misfortune came, their temple \nfell ;\xc2\xbb and then they said there is no God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nInstead of saying, as they ought to have said, \n" Mine was an idol, and God Almighty pardon \nme the wrong worship." Ever more and more \ndo I myself thank God, \xe2\x80\x94 God ! I do thank \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 137 \n\nthee for what troubles I have had ; they were \ntouchstones of my faith, and now they help to as- \nsure me of heaven. And yet, \xe2\x80\x94 O God ! in \nmerciful affliction let thy will be done upon me, if \nunknowingly I am serving thee for wages and not \nfor love. Oliver, I have been thinking of what \nwe talked about two or three days ago. And it \nseems to me that old age is meant to be a further \nand a last chance for those who have not been \nmade wise before. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are those whose minds are so small, that \nthis world is enough for them, as it would seem. \nTo a man of this character who is a tradesman, \nthe earth was made for his shop to stand on, and \nto be a street for his customers to come up ; and \nto him life is a long market-day, and the safety of \na bank is in the place of Providence ; and his \nsorrow for a bad bargain is an anxiety greater \nthan ought to be felt for any thing else but sin. \nAnd sinful his state of mind is become, for it is \nwithout God. And now memory, calculation, \nactivity, fail him ; and so his love of trading fails. \nAnd now he says, " I thought existence had \nbeen a mart for trading on, but it is not, though \nit is only so I have used it. Lord, have mercy \nonrae!" \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBetter late than never, infinitely better. But \n\n\n\n138 EUTHANASY. \n\nit is sad to see a man begin to serve God only \nbecause he cannot serve Mammon any longer. \nThat is more melancholy than seeing a man\'s \nfaculties fail. Though the decay of the mind is \nvery distressing to witness. To know that very \nprobably your own or some friend\'s mind will be \nenfeebled by old age \n\nATJBIN. \n\nMind, mind enfeebled ! Body you mean, dear \nuncle. Mend the decaying body, and the mind \nwould show itself again. It is not the soul, but \nonly the manifestation of it, that fails with the \nbrain. My hands are palsied, and I cannot use \nthem ; but my mind is as lively as ever. My \nbrain is torpid, and is useless for thinking ; but \nmy soul may be the same as ever. An aged \nrelative of mine had been childish for many years, \nand knew none of her family. But for an hour \nor two before she died, she was herself again. \nAnd she knew all her friends, and asked after her \nabsent children. And through her watery eyes \nand blank expression, her soul looked out on the \nworld again as loving, and knowing, and peaceful \nas ever. That I myself saw. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn her body, some change against death had \nexcited her brain a little, I suppose. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd made what was not brain be brain, and \nwhat her soul could make itself felt in. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 139 \n\n\n\nIMARHAM. \nFor years she had been imbecile, do you say ? \nAUBIN. \nYes, uncle. Of the day of her life the latter \npart was as dark as night ; but it was with fog and \nclouds, not with an extinguished sun. For in the \nevening, the sun of her reason was seen again, \nand seen to have been always shining in itself, \nthough not into the world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, why, \xe2\x80\x94 what can be the reason, \xe2\x80\x94 this, \nof the soul\'s being allowed to be so eclipsed ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are many good reasons for it, I have no \ndoubt \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDear Oliver, I do not \n\n\n\nATJBIN. \n\nIt is a great thing for us to be made sure some- \ntimes, that, though the soul is darkened, it is not \nput out. And if we see for ourselves that the \nsoul can be eclipsed, and yet shine on again, then \nwe can so easily trust how the shadow of death will \npass over it, if righteous, only to leave it shining \nforth as the sun in the kingdom of our Father. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThank you, Oliver. But I was going to say, \nthat I had asked just now what I should not ; \nperhaps it was more my feeling which was wrong, \n\n\n\n140 ETTTHANASY. \n\nthan what I said. For it is better to trust in the \ngoodness of what God does with us, than for us \nto be anxious about what his purpose is. Yet, \nOliver, do you know it sometimes feels as though \nit would be a relief to me to know what certainly \nare the uses of old age which God intends ? \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIn regard to old age, I think what you have \nbeen saying. I think that there is a purpose in \nit, and a privilege higher than our thoughts, and \nabove what we could have understood from the \nSon of God, if he had spoken about it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAge makes leisure for reflection, whether we \nwish it or not. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe years of old age are stalls in the cathedral \nof life in which for aged men to sit, and listen, \nand meditate, and be patient till the service is \nover, and in which they may get themselves ready \nto say Amen at the last, with all their hearts, and \nsouls, and strength. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so to depart in peace. Old age has been \ncalled a disease of the body, and perhaps it is ; \nbut very certainly it ought to be consecration of \nthe soul. Oliver, you are looking for something. \nWhat is it you want ? \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 141 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO, I can do without the book. I will tell you \na saying of Martin Luther\'s. He said, that God \nassembles to himself a Christian church out of little \nchildren ; for that when a little child dies, of one \nyear old, that always one \xe2\x80\x94 yes, two \xe2\x80\x94 thousand \ndie with it, of that age or younger ; but that when \nhe himself, who was sixty-three, should die, there \nwould not be a hundred of his age die with him ; \nand that he believed that old people live so long \nin order that they may see the tail of the Devil, \nand be witnesses that he is such a wicked spirit. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI would sooner believe that men. live to be old \nso as to know for themselves the truth of the text, \nthat even to our old age God is the same, and that \neven to hoar hairs he will carry us. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAge does for the whole character what can be \ndone for it in youth only by one adversity on one \nside, and by another on another. Even with the \nbest man, rule is apt to run to self-will, and high \nhealth to self-reliance, and knowledge to pride, \nand unblemished morals to self-satisfaction. But \nwhen the man grows old, he finds age to be a cor- \nrective of all this. His sight and hearing fail, and \nso he has to rely on the eyes and ears of persons \nabout him. His memory fails, and so he has to \ndepend on other men\'s recollections. His body \n\n\n\n142 EUTHANASY. \n\nleans, \xe2\x80\x94 ay, and so would his soul, and be bowed \nquite down, only that, as he grows weaker, he \nfeels more and more a divine arm about him up- \nholding him. And upon that arm he leans, and \nthe more lovingly the longer he lives. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere is good, Oliver, there is great good, in \nold age ; more and more I hope to know of it for \nmyself. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe ancients might call old age sad, but that is \nwhat we Christians ought not to do. And if about \nany old man there are things that might sadden \nnim a little, let him be a Christian, and his melan- \ncholy will be changed into what will be like a gen- \ntle prayer, always rising from within his soul. In \na sermon which I once wrote \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA sermon, you said ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle ; I thought once of writing and pub- \nlishing some ten or twelve sermons on the relig- \niousness of daily life, but I only wrote one. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI should like to see it, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYou shall have it, uncle, this evening. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 143 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. \n\nWhere there is no vision, the people perish. \xe2\x80\x94 Prov. xxix. 18. \n\nThis text was a proverb once, and its meaning \nwas accurately known a hundred generations ago ; \nbut now it is not, and it never will be known quite \nexactly ; for this proverb is a something of the \nspirit, and the world of spirit is not to be scruti- \nnized like that of matter. \n\nFrom a few marks studied upon limestone, \nfrom a few rocky appearances, from a few fossils \nand bones, and other like proofs, will a man, after \nthe manner of Baron Cuvier, rightly infer what \nthis earth was before it became what it now is ; \nwhat its climate was and its plants, and what the \naspect of its forests ; how the mammoth looked \nand moved amid tall trees, and in and out of their \nshadow how there went creeping things innumer- \nable and monstrous ; at what swiftness the bird of \nprey flew upon its victims, and what its victims \nwere ; how it rained then as it rains now, and \nhow the tide rippled on the sea-shore then as it \nripples now, and how the shells were mostly then \nwhat are not to be found now. And the look of \n\n\n\n144 EITTHANASY. \n\n\n\nwhat all this was, science will make out from a \nfew vestiges. \n\nAnd vestiges of ancient thought the book of \nProverbs is. Our text is one of these spiritual \nremains, and for us it has a meaning plain enough, \nthough perhaps not exactly what the author \nmeant ; because what his state of mind was in \nthinking it we do not know, for at that time the \nhuman mind was under another economy than the \nChristian. \n\nu Where there is no vision, the people perish." \nThere may be hidden meaning in these words, \nperhaps, but there is plain truth. Most of the \nProverbs are easy to be understood, though some \nof them are of no use in our English circum- \nstances, and some others are too shrewd for Chris- \ntian simplicity. But all of them are interesting as \nspiritual remains. Vestiges they are of an era in \nthe human mind, long, long back ; words of cau- \ntion, spiritual armour, fashioned for the use of the \nyoung in the anxious minds of experienced sages ; \nproved advice for behaviour in the house, the \ncity, and the field ; and immortal truths which \nwise men coined out of their mortal sufferings. \n\n" Where there is no vision, the people perish." \nWhence came this proverb among the Jews, for \nhad not they their prophets always, and visions \nalways ? No, for the school of the prophets in \nRamah was sometimes attended in vain ; and as \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 145 \n\n\n\nin the latter days of Eli, the priest, often there was \nno open vision. And why was it, at any time, \nthat the prophets could " find no vision from the \nLord " ? It was because the people had disabled \nthemselves for such grace, and not because God \nwas changeable, as some of them thought, and so \nwithheld his free spirit from them. God never \nwithdrew from them who had Abraham to their \nfather; but withdraw from Him they did, not over \nJordan, but farther still, down the steeps of vice, \ninto that thick air of sensualized thought, which \nhardly a ray of spiritual light can shine into. \n\nAmong the Jews, when there was no vision, \nthey perished, and with ourselves spiritual ruin is \nvery common, for want of spiritual insight. Spir- \nitual insight into life is the subject of this sermon. \n\nI. Let us think about life as activity. In God \nyou live and move and have your being. That \nnot a breath do you draw, nor a pulse do you \nfeel, nor a step do you take, but in dependence \non another will besides your own, \xe2\x80\x94 this you do \nnot doubt. Nor can you doubt, that in God your \nspirits live, as far as they live at all ; for like the \nchurch of Sardis, they may have a name that \nthey live, and be dead. \n\nOur human is no empty existence. The cir- \ncumstances of our lives are not unmeaning, but \ninfinitely otherwise ; but this we very often do not \nsee for want of vision. High as heaven and wide \n10 \n\n\n\n146 EUTHANASY. \n\nt \n\nas the earth is the atmosphere of holy opportunity, \nin which our souls have their being. Is not it felt ? \nThen it is only because it is not wished. \n\nNot every hour, nor every day, perhaps, can \ngenerous wishes ripen into kind actions ; but \nthere is not a moment that cannot be freighted \nwith prayer. But do you say that you cannot \npray except when night solemnizes your spirits, \nor before the day\'s business begins ? Begins the \ndisorder of your souls ; say that, and so you finish \nyour excuse. But do you establish it ? No. \nFor that would be unchristian business, and to be \nshunned like hell itself, that could not be done in \na quiet, loving, and devout spirit. \n\nWhat ! you have perverse wills to deal with, \nhave you ? And these evils you do not, some of \nyou, overcome with goodness, but oppose with \nheat. Firmness, principle, do you call it ? But \nit is not. For be sure of this, that, in any cir- \ncumstances, a right temper towards your fellow- \ncreatures is what would any moment pass freely \ninto prayer. Do you object, then, that business \nis not and cannot be made religious ? Theologi- \ncal it cannot be made, but religious it ought to \nbe. Do you say that labor can be executed \nrightly, only by minding it and thinking of nothing \nelse ? But is not it done sometimes sulkily, and \nsometimes cheerfully ? And cannot it also be \ndone trustfully ? And would it be done any the \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 147 \n\nless thoroughly, if the laborer felt himself some- \nthing better than a machine, if the ploughman felt \nhimself more than a continuation of the plough- \nhandle as he holds it, and if he were glad at being \na worker together with God, \xe2\x80\x94 God in the ele- \nments, and himself in the flesh ? Does any one \nstill contend that in trade a man cannot be spiritu- \nally-minded, and that in the throng of domestic \ncares the spirit is quenched, and does not and can- \nnot live ? Then the old anchorites were right in \nretiring from town and home into solitude. For \nis not this the worst thing possible, and the most \nhorrible, to be without God in the world ? \n\nTo be born in heathen ignorance of God is the \nworst misfortune. But, whether in a counting- \nhouse, or handling tools, or busied with domes- \ntic employments, to remain in circumstances that \nclose the avenues of. the soul against God\'s Holy \nSpirit, \xe2\x80\x94 and this through nearly the whole of six \ndays out of seven, and therefore through nearly \nthe whole of life, \xe2\x80\x94 this is not misfortune, if it is \nwhat we know ; for it is crime. Crime those \nearly anchorites felt it, and so they left their \nhomes and their old places of business and pleas- \nure. And criminality there is in us, if we are \nliving large portions of time in a way that is with- \nout God. But in all probability it is not what \nwe have to do, but it is our spirits, that want \nchanging. And they may be so changed, and be \n\n\n\n148 EUTHANASY. \n\nmade so familiar with loftier views of life, and so \neager after righteousness, that, in the field, and the \nshop, and the house, what is now a monotony of \nwork for them may itself become an exercise unto \ngodliness. \n\nGod forces man to toil, and it is well; because, \nwithout life were laborious, much of what is best \nin it would never be. But in exertion there is \nwhat is not often thought of. This less-heeded \nvirtue of it I will now speak of. \n\nThere are kinds of action that are specially \nfavorable to the formation of a good character ; \nsuch as relieving those who are in want, risking \nlife in good causes, and devoting one\'s days to \nsuch works as are, like virtue, their own reward, \nall unrewarded else. But the merest toil, the \nmerest muscular exertion, draws character out and \nhelps to fix it. Every stroke of the hammer on \nthe anvil hardens a little what is at the time the \ntemper of the smith\'s mind ; if blasphemous, he \nis morally the worse for working ; but if hopeful, \ntrustful, then, though the blow rings only on the \niron, it is a blow for goodness, and it is struck \nagainst sin and on the side of God ; and because \nstruck in the faith and cheerfulness of the man\'s \nsoul, his faith and cheerfulness are in that way \nexerted, though indirectly ; and so those divine \nfeelings are strengthened in him a little. The toil \nof the ploughman furrows the ground, and so it \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 149 \n\ndoes his brow with wrinkles, visibly ; and invisi- \nbly, but quite as certainly, it furrows the current \nof feeling common with him at his work into an \nalmost unchangeable channel. \n\nWhat exertion a man makes from day to day \nmakes intenser his ordinary mood. It makes \nthe sensual man more brutish still ; and him in \nwhom there is little vision it makes still blinder \nto God and goodness, and what life is ; while at \nhard work, along with deep breath the saint draws \nin holiness. \n\nThe monks of old knew that, for willing per- \nsons, there is a religious use even in manual labor. \nIt was a saying with one of the fathers of the \nChurch, and with some monasteries was a motto, \nthat to work well is to pray well. \n\nBodily exertion makes mental earnestness ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nearnestness in what you will, \xe2\x80\x94 what you choose \nto let your working mood be. Be discontented \nwith your lot in life, \xe2\x80\x94 in other words, be dissatis- \nfied with God, \xe2\x80\x94 commonly work in that state of \nfeeling, and then every day your mind will dark- \nen, and every effort of your arm will help to rivet \non your soul the chains of perdition. Chains of \nperdition ! The metaphor does but hide the truth. \nFor your soul\'s godless, joyless temper is itself \nperdition ; and the stripping your soul of the flesh \nwould itself leave you in hell. \n\nWhat ! hell for what is hardly called a crime, \n\n\n\n150 ETJTHANASY. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 for what is less than fraud, lust, and falsehood ! \nBut with no joy and peace in believing, is a mind \nguiltless ? and shut against the Holy Spirit, is not \na soul sinful ? In the vision of judgment in the \nRevelation, St. John counts as the victims of the \nsecond death, the abominable, and murderers, and \nwhoremongers, and idolaters, and all liars. But \nthese are not all whom he names ; there are two \nother classes, and in his mention of them they \nprecede the abominable and the murderer, and \nthese are the fearful and the unbelieving.- They \nare the first in St. John\'s list of the wicked, and \ntheirs is the state of mind in which all wickedness \nbegins. Murder, lust, lying, are manifestations \nof an evil spirit ; of which evil spirit the very es- \nsence is unbelief. Passion throws a shade against \nthe sun of righteousness, and in that eclipse the \nbenighted man sins ; for no man ever did wrong, \nfeeling full faith in God the while. \n\nQuite away from all feeling of God no man \never quite escapes ; and into the most darkened \nspirit a few rays of the Divine Majesty will flash. \nAnd most persons are accessible to religious in- \nfluences for an hour or two on Sunday, and for a \nfew minutes on other days. But this does not \nshow religious character, but only religious capa- \ncity. The cheater and the debauchee have times \nof mournful longing for their lost innocence. But \nthis does not show that they are virtuous, but \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 151 \n\nonly that they are capable of becoming so. And \nso with many a one, his regular prayers betoken, \nnot that he is religious, but that he might be so if \nhe were to will it. The holy spirit is a spirit, \nand not one mood of the mind ; it is not sabbat- \nical, but daily ; it is not a morning and an even- \ning temper, but a perpetual presence in us. \n\nO, there is a spirit that Christians have, that \nmakes domestic and mechanical work be more \ndevout than what service often a priest per- \nforms ; making it be done heartily, as unto the \nLord, and not unto men. There is a spirit that \nis quickened, and not quenched, by vexations ; a \nspirit of forgiveness, enforced, and free, and re- \njoicing : for he that is forgiving in this world is \nblessedly conscious of being himself forgiven in \nanother world, and for ever. And no one ever \nhushes what he might think his just anger into \nsilence, without feeling that there is another life \ndwelling in his little life, \xe2\x80\x94 God in his soul. And \nso in his soul he has the peace of God rise and \nspread over what would otherwise have been the \ndisorder of his passions. Most lives are thronged \nwith anxieties; but there is a- spirit that is not \novercome of these things, but that bears with them \nin the high thought of being in fellowship with \nGod ; for if we have to endure evils, God bears \nwith their existence too. \n\nWhether or not this Christian spirit is his, ev- \n\n\n\n152 EUTHANASY. \n\nery one knows and cannot but know. Now this \nspirit is being, strengthened within you, or it is \nbeing shut out from you, in every thing you do, \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 by the pleasures you take, and the labors you \nundertake. You are capable of being, and some \ntime you may will to be, what as yet only your \nenthusiasm thrills to in a hymn, or some better \nhour now and then ; but you are yourself what \nyour common mood is, and that only ; and that \nmood is made more abiding in you by every yes \nand no of your speaking, and by whatever use \nyou make of your hands. \n\nII. Let us now consider what is the spiritual \neffect upon us of the outer world. The sights \nand sounds of nature stream into our minds, a \nforce for good to the good soul, and for evil to \nthe soul that is evil. Nor is this so strange, if we \nthink on some experiences of our own. Perhaps \nwith us ah there have been mysterious seasons, \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 summer evenings, oftenest, \xe2\x80\x94 in which all na- \nture about us has felt instinct with meaning ; when \nour spirits have thrilled into the same tone with \nthe wind in the tree-tops, and rock, and river, and \nthe distant stars have felt as though struggling with \ntheir dumbness for speech with us. \n\nThere is some incitement of nature upon us \nnearly always, perhaps, though we may not know \nof it. Like our bodies, our souls are affected \nby gloom and sunshine, day and night, summer \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 153 \n\nand winter. For instance, a bright day makes us \ndecided in our minds, and it shines precision into \nour purposes. While in the evening we may \nnotice that it is with some states of our spirits as \nit is with some plants, which flower only in the \nnight-time. With the twilight our hearts begin to \nsoften, but in what way, darkness has nothing to \ndo with. For while one man is softened into \npure affection by the evening, another has his \nfeelings relax into debauchery. \n\nAlso, when the limiting world is shaded from \nour eyes, the feeling of the infinite is freer within \nus, and it blends with our other feelings and \nmakes them stronger, and passionately full ; and \nso our spirits feel sublimed by the awfulness of \nnight, and the world around us is transfigured ; \nand so much so, that to our altered mood vice it- \nself is altered, and is not the odious thing of mid- \nday, but a fruit, forbidden indeed, but hanging still \non the tree of knowledge, and not fallen into the \ncommon mire of sensualism. And so damnation \nis often plucked and eaten under the spell of \nnight, by those who would never have so sinned \nin the day. Never have so acted the sin, is the \ntruth ; for the sinfulness itself must have been in \nthem before, because outward circumstances do \nnot make any feeling in us, they only quicken it. \nAnd often a good man will thrill with holy zeal \nfrom the same cause that makes another man\'s \n\n\n\n154 EUTHANASY. \n\nheart throb only with selfish anxiety. Thus, too, \nnight does not appear one thing to one man, and \nanother to another ; for it has the same look to \nevery human eye ; but it has not the same feeling \nto every spirit, but much otherwise. For in \nmany things our souls feel only what they are \nready to feel. And so darkness is to one per- \nson like the shadow of God\'s hand upon the \nearth, and under it he rejoices with trembling ; \nwhile another man feels it like a disguise to walk \nin, and he loves it better than light, only because \nhis deeds are evil. \n\nTo the evil-disposed, the whole world is a \ntemptation ; and all the changes in it are so many \nvicious allurements ; and the very voice of nature \nis turned into fleshly suggestions. While, to a \nChristian, nature is as pure as her Maker, and is \nfull of his expression. David\'s feelings may be \nours. May be ? They must be. They will \nbe ours, if in this world of God\'s we are God\'s \nchildren ; and we shall feel how the heavens do \ndeclare the glory of our God, and how the earth \nis full of his goodness. Yes, there is a state of \nmind in which God\'s presence everywhere is \nwhat is felt, as well as known, and in which the \nMaker of heaven and earth is more than a devout \nphrase, \xe2\x80\x94 is a living reality, a felt Godhead, the \nindwelling spirit of the green earth and the fiery \nstars. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n155 \n\n\n\nOnly let us love God, and then nature will \ncompass us about like a cloud of divine witness- \nes ; and all influences from the earth, and things \non the earth, will be ministers of God to do us \ngood. The breezes will whisper our souls into \npeace and purity ; and in a valley, or from a hill- \ntop, or looking along a plain, delight in beauti- \nful scenery will pass into sympathy with that in- \ndwelling though unseen spirit, of whose presence \nbeauty is everywhere the manifestation, faint, in- \ndeed, because earthly. Then not only will the \nstars shed us light, but they will pour from heaven \nsublimity into our minds, and from on high will \nrain down thoughts to make us noble. God \ndwells in all things ; and felt in a man\'s heart, \nhe is then to be felt in every thing else. Only \nlet there be God within us, and then every thing \noutside us will become a godlike help. \n\nIn the morning, we shall wake up to work \n"while it is called to-day," and more deeply \nevery night will darkness solemnize our spirits ; \nand the four seasons, as they change, spring into \nsummer, and autumn into winter, will ripen our \nlittle faith into "joy and peace in believing"; \nand every year, more and more clearly, the world \nwill be for us " a glass, in which we all with open \nface, beholding the glory of the Lord, shall be \nchanged into the same image from glory to glory, \neven as by the spirit of the Lord." \n\n\n\n156 EUTHANASY. \n\nIII. Of action in life and of the scenery of \nlife we have thought ; now let us think of partici- \npation in life, \xe2\x80\x94 of life as shared with others. \n\n" He that loveth not his brother abideth in \ndeath"; so wrote the Apostle John; and thus \nJesus Christ said: \xe2\x80\x94 "I say unto you, Love \nyour enemies." But out of the circle of our ac- \nquaintance, and beyond those to whom we can \nreach a gift with our hands, what is Christian lov- \ning ? It is not merely not hating, as the common \nnotion is, but it is spiritual sympathy. \n\n"What is my neighbour\'s misfortune to me ? \nfor he was no friend of mine." So says Re- \nspectability. And what said William Hazlitt, \nwho dared to speak out many things that most \nmen feel, but only few confess ? Now Hazlitt \nwas a kind-hearted man, and yet he has written \nthat men never hear of the ill-fortune of their \nfriends without being secretly pleased. And with \nChristian exceptions, this is a thing to be believ- \ned. For perfect friendship is impossible in any \nbut a Christian spirit. It is not to be felt out of \nsocial instinct only, joined though it may be to \nintellectual refinement and a quick sense of honor. \nThis is the friendship of the world, and it is what \nmay be enmity with God. \n\nMan, the child of God, may be a true friend, \nbut not the man of Hazlitt\'s observatior, not the \nman of the world, not a man merely, though thor- \noughly, well educated. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 157 \n\nThere is pleasure in the sight of the same faces \nday by day ; and so there is in the intimacy of \nthose who can be helpful to one another, as they \ncontrive and labor in the\'same corner of the earth ; \nbut for true friendship, the world must be felt as \nsomething more than a workshop ; it must be the \nbusy porch of infinity. \n\nThis is the feeling that perfects friendship ; and \nit is what perfects that love which is the fulfilling \nof the law. Sympathy, fellow-feeling with one \nanother as spirits, immortal spirits, \xe2\x80\x94 this makes \nthe temper, which, when it has opportunity, does, \nand is glad to do, good unto all men ; which re- \njoices with them that do rejoice, and weeps with \nthem that weep. Is this our mind ? For if it is \nnot, we are perilously wrong. Our state is not \nonly not right, but it is what gets worse every \nday. \n\nIt is not enough for a man to love his family \ntenderly ; it is not enough for him to love a friend \nor two, so as to be willing to halve his property \nwith them ; and to the poor, it is not enough for \nhim to give alms, for this the Pharisees did, and \nfreely ; and domestic love and friendly attachment \na man may feel who bitterly hates his enemies. \n\nChristian love not only relieves a poor man\'s \nnakedness and hunger, but it strengthens his soul \nwith sympathy ; and domestic and friendly affec- \ntion it sublimes out of capricious instinct into a \n\n\n\n158 EUTHANAS"X. \n\nfeeling, which, for an unfailing fountain, has the \ndepth of infinity itself, and for brightness, God\'s \nsmile upon it, and for warmth, hopes that glow \nwith immortality. \n\nGod ! of what grandeur this life of ours is made \ncapable ! In the eye of faith, what a glory it \noften wears ! Spiritually we are what we will be, \nand the meanest of us may have a day such as \nkings and prophets longed for once, but never \nsaw. For now God is known in Christ, and now \nin Christ our spiritual nature is regenerate, larger \nin capacity, and richer in opportunity, and what \nmay become in all of us that which Jesus felt, as \nhe prayed, " I in them, and thou in me, that they \nmay be made perfect in one." \n\nLook at the life of a saint. It is honorable \nand beautiful outwardly, but inwardly it is nobler \nstill ; just as behind the very brightness of the \nstars is hidden the exceeding and indwelling maj- \nesty of God. In the heart of a saint, how sweetly \nall his anxieties are soothed into peace, mysterious \nand " not as the world giveth "! No, not as the \nworld giveth ! For when heaven and earth shall \nhave passed away, that peace will have outlived \nthe disorder it controlled among the passions, and \nwill have hushed for the soul her fears for a per- \nishing universe. \n\nIn the mind of a saint, there is not a thought \nbut has the most wonderful relations. It is holy, \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 159 \n\nbecause God Most High is holy ; it is solemn \nwith the unknown, but fast coming, day of judg- \nment ; it is self-denying in and through the spirit \nof Christ upon Calvary ; it is trustful with the \nfaith of many days\' past prayers ; and it is cheer- \nful with that joy of God with which the whole \nuniverse is instinct, but which on earth wells up \nnowhere so freely and purely as into a believing \nmind. While over the head of a saint, the mean- \nest cottage has heaven open ; and nigh him always \nis a door to be opened by prayer, and at which \nto ask is to have given him a wealth of goodness, \nand comfort, and assurance of heaven. " For \nevery one that asketh receiveth, and he that seek- \neth findeth." \n\nFaith is the inspiration of nobleness ; it is the \nstrength of integrity ; it is the life of love, and is \neverlasting growth for it ; it is courage of soul, \nand bridges over for our crossing the gulf between \nworldline$s and heavenly-mindedness ; and it is \nthe sense of the unseen, without which we could \nnot feel God nor hope for heaven. \n\nFaith is the very life of the spirit ; how shall \nwe maintain it, how increase it ? By living it. \nFaith grows with well-doing. What little faith \nyou have, only live it for one day, and it will be \nstronger to-morrow. Live with your fellow-crea- \ntures as their brother to-day, and to-morrow God \nwill be felt by you as your Father in heaven the \n\n\n\n160 EUTHANASY. \n\nmore tenderly. We become children of the High- \nest, through loving like our brethren the dwellers \nof the whole wide earth. And it is a law of our \nspirits, that, in many ways, what we regard others \nas being we ourselves become. \n\nIf you treat another as having no feeling, you \nharden your own heart. If you are suspicious \ncommonly, what does your temper betoken ? It \nmeans that you want faith in goodness. And you \nmay allow yourself to doubt your friends so much \nas to have but little faith in God at last, and so \nas yourself to become worse than your own sus- \npicions about your acquaintance. Disinterested \nyou cannot continue, nor become, if you are to \nbe thinking often as to whether other persons are* \nselfish or not. A man that is in want, you shall \ntreat as a suffering brother, and not relieve as a \nbeggar, else your own soul shall be beggared of \ndelicacy. Here is a fellow-creature in reach of \nyour hand, and in want of help, which you could \ngive if you would ; now if you do not, it is be- \ncause to you the man is not even as the least of \nChrist\'s brethren ; and so every time you see \nhim, you are spiritually the worse ; for to shut \nthe eyes against virtuous opportunity weakens \nvirtuous perception. Here is another man whose \nmost earnest thoughts are of Mammon, whose \npleasures are of eating, and drinking, and vanity, \nand whom the world loveth as its own. Now if \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n161 \n\n\n\nyou have a love for that man that is not pity, \nthen \n\n" His spirit shall have power to weigh thy spirit down." \n\nHere is a good man who is poor ; now if you \nwithhold your regard from his virtue on account \nof his being poor, poor will you yourself grow in \nworth. Here is another fellow-creature ; he is a \nservant of yours, perhaps, and perhaps you feel \ntowards him not unkindly, and yet only as though \nhe were some contrivance of flesh and blood. \nSo much the worse for you, then. For the man \nhas a living soul within him, \xe2\x80\x94 a soul despairing \nand hopeful, suffering and enjoying, loving and \n-praying, and not without a looking for of judg- \nment. And some little it is through sympathy \nwith his soul that yours is meant to grow. Here \nis some bad or ignorant person within the reach \nof your influence ; now if you are heedless of \nhis crown of immortality, then the fine gold of \nyour own will grow dim. \n\n" And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall he \nShut out from Love, and on her threshold lie, \nHowling in outer darkness. Not for this \n"Was common clay ta\'en from the common earth, \nMoulded by God, and tempered with the tears \nOf angels to the perfect shape of man." \n\nThink of what St. Paul has written, \xe2\x80\x94 " We, \nbeing many, are one body in Christ, and every \none members one of another." \n11 \n\n\n\n162 EUTHANASY. \n\nThis is the manner of our being ; it is of God, \nthe way of our spiritual growth now, and perhaps \nfor ever ; that morally we make ourselves what \nwe treat others as being. \n\nYes ! for the spirit, all things have spiritual ef- \nfect. All actions, \xe2\x80\x94 such as occur only once in a \nlifetime, and such as make up our daily business, \nand even what are only momentary, \xe2\x80\x94 all actions \nare expression, unavoidably. But it is for our- \nselves to will what they shall be expressive of, \nand so strengthen in us, \xe2\x80\x94 whether apathy, self- \nwill, discontent, sensuality, or a spirit hopeful, and \ncheerful, and loving, and joyful in God. \n\nYes ! for the spirit, all things have spiritual \neffect. Nature is an excitement for us, more or \nless, almost always ; but whether for good or evil \nis according to what our spirits are. One man is \nmade moody by hearing the winter\'s wind, while \nanother is sublimed by the almightiness that flies \nupon its wings. Silence is a spiritual power to \nfeel ; and in it one person feels the more inclined \nto sin, while another man, as it were, hears from \non high the music of the spheres, known only to \nthose who are being taught by virtue \n\n" How to climb \nHigher than the sphery chime." \n\nYes ! for the spirit, all things have spiritual \neffect. Sharing in life, along with others, has. \nVery largely we ourselves become what others \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 163 \n\nare to us. If to our regards they are not spirit- \nual, then we are not spiritual. If others are to us \nliving bodies only, then very nearly of the flesh, \nfleshly, we must be. But if in others we honor \nthe image of God, then upon our own souls it will \ncome out and brighten. Love truly, and then \nother men\'s souls will be sources of your soul\'s \ngrowth. Sympathize with the good in their en- \ndeavours, and you will yourself be morally the \nstronger. Revere the wise, and yours will be the \nstate of mind into which wisdom comes most free- \nly. Love little children, and something of their \ninnocence will come over your mind, and whiten \nits darker spots. Love them that are old, and \nyour soul will be as though the longer experienced \nin life. \n\nThis life that we are living in is not empty of \npower, but full of it, \xe2\x80\x94 power that is on us and \nabout us always, and into the nature of which we \nhave vision given us, that we should not perish. \n\nWish to be a child of God ; and then sunshine \nand frost, and friends and enemies, and youth and \nage, and business and pleasure, and all things, will \nhelp to make you. \n\n\n\n164 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. \n\nOur many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey go out from us thronging every hour ; \n\nAnd in them all is folded up a power \n\nThat on the earth doth move them to and fro ; \n\nAnd mighty are the marvels they have wrought \n\nIn hearts we know not, and may never know. \xe2\x80\x94 F. W. Faber. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nI like your sermon, Oliver. Why did not \nyou go on with your purpose, and write the vol- \nume which you meant, on the religiousness of \ndaily life ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBecause I became too poor to pay for the \nprinting of it. Instead of my making sermons \nto others, I had myself to listen to one every \nday, preached to me out of a stone pulpit, by \npoverty. One day the text was, " It is good \nfor a man that he bear the yoke in his youth " ; \nand another day it was, " Man that is born of \na woman is of few days, and full of trouble " ; \nbut on the festival days of the soul, it was, \n" As dying, and behold we live ; as sorrow- \nful, yet always rejoicing ; as having nothing, \nand yet possessing all things." It was a course \nof sermons that lasted with me a long, long \n\n\n\ni \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 165 \n\ntime. But I am the better for it. At first, the \nvoice of the preacher was distressing to me, \nbut my ear got so attuned to it as to hear it like \na voice, the tones of which God was using to \ntalk to me with. And now I am another man \nfor what I learned then. I am not the same \nas I was, either in mind or heart, nor in my way \nof expressing myself. So at least I thought, \non lately looking over the sermon which you have \nbeen reading. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat I am sorry for is, that you have deserv- \ned to have a name \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTo be printed in catalogues of old books ; and \nI have not got it. But what does that matter ? \nWhy should one covet being forgotten as an au- \nthor as well as a man ? Since nearly all of this \ngeneration will be forgotten, both the men and the \nbooks of it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA few years, a very few years, and of us two \nall that will be left in this earth will be a little \ndust, and in a few men\'s minds a few distant rec- \nollections of us. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAy, in one man there will be a recollection of \nyour having shown him a curious book ; on anoth- \ner\'s tongue there will be some faint after-taste of a \n\n\n\n166 EUTHANASY. \n\nvery good dinner of your giving ; in another, there \nwill survive the way you looked in your morning- \ngown ; while in the memory of another, there \nwill be living the tones in which you said he was \na good boy. In men\'s minds a faint remem- \nbrance of us, and, six feet deep in the ground, a \nlittle blackness in the mould, will be all our re- \nmains in the world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThen a little while longer, and they will have \nvanished ; and then, ah ! then there will be no \ntrace left of our lives ever having been. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBeen what, uncle ? Not spent in vain. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI thought, Oliver, you were saying that we \nshould be forgotten soon. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo I did. But I did not mean that our lives \nwould ever be unfelt ; for in this world they never \nwill be. Babbage says, that, with every word \nspoken, the air vibrates, and the particles of it \nare altered as to their places ; that the winds, \nnorth, south, east, and west, are affected every \ntime I speak ; that, with my voice, the atmos- \npheric particles in this room have their places \nchanged, not so as to be any thing to us, but so \nas, ages hence, to witness to higher minds than \nours what we have been saying this afternoon. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 167 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn that way, there is more truth than was in- \ntended in what came to be used as a Christian \nepitaph, \xe2\x80\x94 Non omnis moriar, I shall not, all of \nme, die. For so our idlest words are as lasting \nas the earth. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so are our actions, and so are our thoughts. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd more lasting than the earth they are ; for \nby them our everlasting souls are the worse or the \nbetter. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTrue. But what I mean besides is, that our \ninfluence will last as long as the earth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOurs will ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, and so will any peasant\'s. Because, of \ncourse, I do not speak of the endurance of names. \nFor they are only one or two persons in a gener- \nation, and not ten out of a whole people, who \nstand in the sun of life in such a way as to have \ntheir shadows lengthen down all time. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou mean, then \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat my cousins, go where they will, are liv- \ning impulses in society, and of your beginning. \n\n\n\n168 EUTHANAST. \n\nAnd just as there is something of your grand- \nfather in you, there is something of you in your \ngrandchildren ; and there will be something of \nthem, some time, in their children. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nNo doubt, men\'s lives do live on in their de- \nscendants. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIn their flesh and blood, their beating hearts \nand pliant limbs ; but so they do in other ways, \nand in other men. For every good deed of ours, \nthe world will be the better always. And perhaps \nno day does a man walk down a street cheerfully, \nand like a child of God, without some passenger\'s \nbeing brightened by his face, and, unknowingly to \nhimself, catching from its look a something of re- \nligion, and sometimes, not impossibly, what just \nsaves him from some wrong action. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe stream of society is such, that often a \npebble falling into it has altered its course. \nMany times, words lightly spoken have been car- \nried against thrones, and been their upsetting. \nAnd many a little event has had in it what in its \nunfolding filled towns and countries, and men\'s \nminds, and ages. I say, that, under Providence, \nit has done this. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAn ark of bulrushes fetched from among the \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 169 \n\nflags of the Nile was the saving of Moses, and \nthe deliverance of the Israelites, and an event \nthrough which the Saviour of the world was born \nwhere he was. The way of thinking which St. \nPaul got as a youth influenced his way of view- \ning and arguing the Gospel as an Apostle of the \nGentiles, so that when Saul of Tarsus was lis- \ntening at the feet of Gamaliel, it was as though \nthe whole Christian Church had sat there. And \nvery certainly Augustine would never have been \nheard of in the world so much and so long, and \neven now so reverently, but for his mother, in \nwhose warm temperament he shared, and after \nwhose earnest prayers on his behalf, year after \nyear, he became Christian. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, there have been men of such a character \nand standing as that, through happening to them, \neven slight things have, in their effects, become \nstupendous, and as wide as the world. But we \nwere speaking just now of common life and ordi- \nnary men. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd without common men, there could be no \nuncommon ones ; and every extraordinary event \nhas its roots in quite ordinary places. Days and \nyears are linked together, and so are men\'s lives, \nby chains of cause and effect, and sometimes cu- \nriously and most wonderfully. So that it is pos- \n\n\n\n170 ETTTHANASY. \n\nsible, that to-day in a shop what an artisan is \nworking at with a song may be the cause \xe2\x80\x94 no ! \none means \xe2\x80\x94 of filling a palace with grief fifty \nyears hence, and of changing a dynasty. Or one \nword of your speaking to a boy this morning may \nprove to root and thrive in his spirit, like good \nseed, and to become what will bear fruit for a \nwhole neighbourhood, and perhaps for a nation, \nand for ages. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is not a thing that could ever be known. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nNot in this world, perhaps. Nor would it be \ngood for us to know such things ; for we are \nweak creatures, and we might get to do what is \nright for the sake of its grand effects, and not for \nits own dear loveliness. But though much of the \ngreatness of the life we are living is wisely veiled \nfrom us, yet we cannot believe too much of it. \nAnd now, uncle, rays from the stars come mil- \nlions of millions of miles together, and there are \nmillions of them in the breadth of an inch, yet \nthey are not lost in one another ; and it can be \ntold of any one of these rays whether it shines \nfrom a sun or a planet, or whether from a solid \nor a liquid mass. Man can know this with his \neye of flesh ; so that it is not impossible that an \nangel may be able to trace a thought out of one \nmind into another, from people to people, and \ndown generations. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 171 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is not so unlikely ; and, Oliver, it is perhaps \neven probable. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nPerhaps when death shall make us spirits, the \nspiritual world will be open to us, and all the \nmovements in it ; and great thoughts will look \nlike angels going from soul to soul ; and noble \nfeeling will seem electric, as it spreads ; and some \nwords will be echoing for ever, out of the recesses \nof one soul into the chambers of another. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe watchwords of liberty and right. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHated, and wronged, and blind, and nearly \nfriendless, was John Milton, during the latter part \nof his life. His sufferings were great, and so \nwas his faithfulness ; and he has sat down in the \nreward of them. And perhaps, now and then, \nhe hears from his throne in heaven the refining \nmusic in men\'s minds which his poetry makes \nround the earth, unceasingly. I knew a mother, \nwho died with her arms round her child, praying \nGod, the while, to guard it. And now, along \nher son\'s path, shining more and more as though^ \nunto perfect day, is to be seen what perhaps \ngladdens her with the certainty that the fervent \nprayer of her righteousness did avail him much. \nAnd many years hence, there will be to be seen \n\n\n\n172 EUTHANASY. \n\namong men some little trace of my having lived ; \nand perhaps I shall myself see it. O, that would \nbe a tender delight ! It is not impossible, I think. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn heaven every sinner that repents is known \nof; and, very likely, so are the means of his con- \nversion ; and if so, then nearly all the holy influ- \nences there are in Christendom must be known of. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI shall not live long ; nor shall I be in the \nmemories of men very long. But out of the \ncharacters of men I shall never die, quite : no, \nnot in many ages. I like the thought of lasting \non in the earth, any way. It is pleasant to me \nto think even of leaving my body behind me in \nthe world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, is it ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOut of this world into another my soul shall go, \nthrough death. Soon this earth will be to me \nwhat my body was buried in. My body will rot \nand become dust ; but it will be my dust. And \nalways it will be in the earth ; and I like to think \nso. Dear world of my birth, that I am to re- \nmember for ever and ever ! I have had pain in \nit often, and pleasure often. And, O, what I have \nlearned in it ! God, and Christ, and my immor- \ntality ! And I have got the knowledge of the \nGood, the Beautiful, and the True. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 173 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd of Human Brotherhood. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe blood of which God has made all nations \nof the earth is not much felt yet, as being one \nblood. But our having shared in it will be a near \nrelationship when we human creatures have scat- \ntered ourselves thinly among the hosts of heaven. \nThen to have been of the same generation will \nbe like having been of the same family ; and, \ndown long streets of stars, we shall look back upon \nthis earth as the little home we all lived in once. \nWhen I think how I shall remember this world \nafter death, sometimes there are moments in which \nI do love the very dust of this dear earth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI feel so sometimes, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYears ago, a beggar and I exchanged looks on \na road-side, and we have never seen one another \nsince; and we never shall again, in this world ; \nbut after many ages, perhaps, we shall find our- \nselves standing side by side, looking up at the \nthrone of God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere lies no despised Lazarus at my door ; \nbut perhaps I have not searched far enough into \nmy neighbourhood. I could help the poor more \nthan I do, I think. There are some things, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n174 EUTHANASY. \n\nluxuries they may be called, \xe2\x80\x94 which I might \ndeny myself, and perhaps ought to. I will think \nof this, and to-night I will \n\nATJBIN. \n\nUncle, are you speaking to me, or only to \nyourself ? for I do not hear you. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nI was thinking something to myself, and aloud, \ntoo, I suppose. But, Oliver, go on with what \nyou were saying : now, do. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI shall die soon. The hand of God is on me. \nMy feelings are not much changed, perhaps ; \nbut they are stronger than what they were, I \nthink. Now, every man I part from is a soul to \nbe met again, and every face I see is what will \nbe bright with the light of heaven some time, and \nin my sight. Duty reaches down ages in its ef- \nfects, and into eternity ; and when a man goes \nabout it resolutely, it seems to me now as though \nhis footsteps were echoing beyond the stars, \nthough only heard faintly in the atmosphere of \nthis world, because it is so heavy. Yes, dear un- \ncle, and in this way I shall still\' hear you, though \nsoon you will hear me no more. But often when \nyou are doing a good action, you will think \nthe light of it is to be seen in heaven, and that \nperhaps I am seeing it. And sometimes after \nyour prayers you will think that, some way, I may \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 175 \n\nknow of them, and perhaps join in some of them ; \nfor now and then I may be near the elders spoken \nof in the Apocalypse, as having every one of \nthem golden vials full of odors, which are the \nprayers of saints. What, then, is death ? It \nwill be a concealment of me from the world, but \nnot a hiding of the world from me. Always there \nwill be something of me lasting on in the world ; \nand to the end of it the world will be known to \nme in some things, I think. Yes, it certainly will \nbe. What is it, then, to die ? It is not to be \nestranged from this life utterly. O, no ! For it \nis to be taken into the bosom of the Father, and \nto feel his feelings for this world, and to look back \nupon it from under the light of his eyes. Death \nis this, and it is beauty and it is peace. \n\n\n\n176 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. \n\n\n\nSilent rushes the swift Lord \nThrough ruined systems still restored, \nBroad-sowing, bleak and void to bless, \nPlants with worlds the wilderness, \nWaters with tears of ancient sorrow \nApples of Eden ripe to-morrow. \xe2\x80\x94 Emerson. \n\nthe heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time. \xe2\x80\x94 Tennyson. \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nfor a day of ancient Greece ! O to have \nbeen quickened for a week at Rome, in Caesar\'s \nlifetime ! O that I had had a day with the priests \nof Egypt ! and then I should have known what \nintelligence the Sphinx is meant to look. O to \nhave had an hour with the Druids of Stonehenge, \nand so to have learned what soul was in their do- \nings there ! O for one of the days of the school \nof the prophets at Ramah ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThey are wishes which you would be none the \nbetter for having, Oliver ; for if they were good, \nthey would not be impossible. \n\nAUBIN. \n\n1 should like to have had a week at the court \nof Lorenzo de\' Medici, and a month at Alexan- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 177 \n\ndria in the second century, and a day or two with \nthe sand-diggers at Rome when they were become \nChristians, and were making their excavations in \nthe earth, into churches, and tombs, and hiding- \nplaces against persecution. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThey must have been a very interesting class \nof men. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI should like to have had a day\'s talk with Abe- \nlard. And, O ! I should like much to have been \na Moor of Granada for a while. Human nature \nI should like to know in all its varieties. I should \nlike to be an Italian for a week, and a Norwegian, \nand a Hindoo, and I do not know what else. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNor I either, to any purpose. For such ex- \nperiences would not be of any use, or else God \nwould have made them possible. So I think, \nOliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMy dear uncle, you are quite right. And be- \nsides, when we look beyond the clothes, and \ndeeper than the skin, civilized nations are not so \nvery different from one another. Betwixt five \nnations there are not greater diversities than there \noften are in the tempers of any five members of \nan Anglo-Saxon family ; only in the household \nthese differences do not seem so great, because \n12 \n\n\n\n178 EUTHANASY. \n\nall the members of it dress alike and are drilled \ninto like habits. If a man loves the twenty per- \nsons nearest him, and so sympathizes truly with \ntheir peculiarities, then with the reading of a few \nbooks of travels he knows almost as much of hu- \nman nature as though he had been amongst all \nnations. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is only with our eyes and through telescopes \nthat the stars are to be known, and it is by much \ntravelling and searching and comparison that the \nvarious kinds of flowers and plants are to be \nknown that grow on the Andes and along the Or- \negon, in the West Indies and in Australia. But \nit is chiefly out of a loving heart that mankind is \nto be known. There are good men who have \nnever been out of their native valleys, who are \nwiser in human nature than thousands are who \nhave traversed the world. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNearly wise, I would say, they are. They have \njust what is almost wisdom, and what would be \nwisdom at once, with a very little experience of \nmen. I have known one or two such persons, and \nin talking with them I was always expecting some- \nthing wiser than what they said. It was as though \nthey were always just about to become great. I \nthink the state of mind of such persons is what \nwill enlarge in heaven, and brighten very fast. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 179 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI quite think that. And in that way many that \nare last now will be first hereafter. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThey are seraphs elect, as is sometimes even \nto be felt in talking with them. A man of this \ncharacter I knew once, who was a pauper ; and I \nnever saw him without my soul being humbled in \nme. For, in presence of his goodness, I myself \nfelt so unworthy ! I assisted him a little, and only \na little, for I was myself suffering some want at \nthe time. But that he should be accepting relief \nfrom me made me feel that there must be a world \nto come, in which for him and me to be in juster \nplaces. And when he thanked me, with humble \nwords, I trembled in myself, \xe2\x80\x94 because it was as \nthough, all round me, the universe were calling \nout against me for my enduring to be less of a \nsufferer than he was who was a better man than \nmyself. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHe must have been a very extraordinary man, \nOliver, I should think. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo he was, uncle ; and so he is now. He \nbecame known to a gentleman, by whom he was \nbefriended and brought forward in the world, and \nso well, as that he is now a man of station and \nsome public repute. In his profession he is very \n\n\n\n180 EUTHANASY. \n\neminent ; and he exemplifies, to some extent, the \ntruth of what we have been saying. \n\nS1ARHAM. \n\nI am so persuaded, Oliver, that, though a man \ncan be cunning without a heart, he cannot be wise. \nIt is against the Gospel to suppose he can be. \nAnd humble, humble, we must be, if we would \nknow any thing to any spiritual purpose. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd especially if we would know human na- \nture ; for one way of learning it is out of our own \nhearts, and they are books that can only be read \nin humility. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, humble we must be, before we can know \nourselves, and be willing to see that in our own \nhearts are the beginnings of what might be like \nthe vices of every nation in the world. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThere is one soul in all us human creatures. \nIn my mind are the elements of all other men\'s \ncharacters ; and my many moods are so many \nnational tempers. In the middle of summer and \nin the heat of the day, now and then, I am a \nBrahmin ; and sometimes in the middle of winter, \nwith the wind roaring in the wood, I feel like a \nScandinavian. A word or two from some one, \nsome little event or other happening to me, a little \nbile more or less in my system, the sort of day, \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 181 \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 sunshiny or foggy, \xe2\x80\x94 these things change me ; \nand one day my temperament is of one country, \nand another day it is of another. It is manifold. \nI have in me a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and a \nSpaniard, a German, an Italian, and, alas ! an \nOtaheitan, a savage. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo, Oliver, no. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI am an Egyptian, a Greek, and a Roman. I \ndo not look like any one of them ; but that is \nbecause I am more than any one of them was. \nFor what knowledge the priests of Egypt made a \nsecret of would be nothing sublime to me. Nay, \nI have no doubt that I have it, \xe2\x80\x94 though, out of \nall my treasures, exactly which it is I cannot \nsay. For in the schools at Alexandria all the \nwisdom of the Egyptians must have been known ; \nand out of those schools came some of the fa- \nthers of the Church, and many of those ways of \nthinking and feeling that began to obtain among \nChristians in the second and third centuries. For \nat one time Alexandria was the great school, \nthe famous university, of the whole world. The \nway the Egyptians were ready to view the Gospel \nhas had its effect on the Christianity of every \nnation ; and still it has, and not without having \ncaused me some darkness, and so made me sor- \nrow, once. \n\n\n\n182 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nErrors are so lasting in the world ! It makes \none almost despair. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nDespair ! No, uncle, but most firmly hope. \nFor then surely truth must be immortal, if, by \nonly being a little like her, falsehoods can live \na thousand years. And truth is immortal ; and \nthere is living in me all of it that was known to \nthose who were solemn among the sphinxes, and \nthoughtful in the vast temples of Egypt. On one \nof their symbols of the godhead were the words, \n"I am all that was, that is, and that is to come ; \nand no mortal has ever unveiled me yet." This \nwas at Sais ; and these were not words to be \nseen and thought of for hundreds of years with- \nout many a person becoming the readier to say, \n" Show us the Father, and it sufficeth us." And \nthe way in which educated Egyptians were readi- \nest to view the Gospel affected their understanding \nof it, and so also the interpretation of it by the \nFathers, who were of the Alexandrian school, \nand so even my own religion a little. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe Christian religion was sadly corrupted by \nthat Alexandrian philosophy ; though I think \nChristianity would have had a very much worse \nhistory, if, in the second and third centuries, the \npreachers of it had been Persian, or merely Ro- \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 183 \n\nman, in those respects in which they were Alex- \nandrian. But, Oliver, we were talking about the \nknowledge of human nature. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo we were, uncle ; but it was with a view to \nseeing that in no age or nation has there ever been \na day to be envied by us for its brightness. How- \never, uncle, what is the wisdom that comes of \nmuch experience among men ? Is not it the cer- \ntainty that all men are born with hearts very like \none another ? So that a man who is fit to rule \nknows all kingly feelings without his going up \nthe steps of a throne, and sitting down with a \ncrown on. \n\nMARRAM. \n\nWould you say, then, that any one man under- \nstands all other men ? Hardly, Oliver, that. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nFor that is what can be said only of " the first- \nborn of every creature " ; and of others it is true \naccording as they are more or less Christian. \nWhat I mean is, that if two men are equally \nacute in their faculties, and have had the same ex- \nperience the one as the other, they may still dif- \nfer in their knowledge of human nature ; and if \nthey do, it will be because the one is more Chris- \ntian than the other. By no bad man, by no man \nconceited or in any way affected, is the soul of \nman to be known, but only by a good man, a man \n\n\n\n184 EUTHAXASY. \n\nof love and honesty and holiness, and who has \nmade it religion to himself to keep simple in heart \nand manners. This man understands the good ; \nand he knows the bad better than they know one \nanother. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThen would you affirm that Shakspeare w T as a \ngood man ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo saint, but a good man he was, certainly. \nBut if a saint he had been, he would have been a \npoet of still larger spiritual insight. Sometimes \nI fancy that I can feel this while reading his plays. \nA man of falsehood, or selfishness, or injustice, \nor habitual sensuality, Shakspeare never can have \nbeen. Measured by the common height of prin- \nciple among men, he must have been nobly \nminded. And this I believe more surely than if \nI saw it ; for he might have deceived my eyes, \nbut through his writings he has put his soul in \ncontact with my moral sense. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd is there nothing in him offensive ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, there is. And there is to be read \nwhat is offensive in regard to one writer, at least, \nwho is called a saint, and not undeservedly. In \nestimating what Shakspeare was in himself, what \ntime he lived in must be remembered. There \n\n\n\nETTTHANASY. 185 \n\nare stains on his pages, but they are of his age\'s \nmaking, and not his own. And we should not \nourselves have noticed them if we had been of \nhis century and his birthplace, or even of the \ncourt of Elizabeth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is just as though we were at her father\'s \ncourt, and at other times as though we were along \nwith her grandfather, while reading some of Shak- \nspeare\'s plays. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYes ; we Englishmen have transmigration of \nsouls through Shakspeare. In reading him I am \nof Athens, and I am Timon, and I know and \nscorn what hollo wness is in many men ; then I lay \ndown the book, and I am myself again ; but my \nsoul is the wiser for having been in Timon \'s body \nand lived his latter life. Another time I am \nHamlet, and sometimes I am Romeo, and King \nJohn, and King Lear, and Wolsey. I go out of \none man\'s mind into another\'s, into a wider, \nand still widening, experience. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, in Shakspeare you are the man you read \nof for the time. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so you are the hero, and the saint, and the \nthinker, while reading their lives. The well- \nwritten lives of great men are things to thank God \n\n\n\n186 EUTHANASY. \n\nfor ; for in reading first one and then another, we \nlearn how great we are ourselves, \xe2\x80\x94 how much \nthere is in us that is unacted and unsaid, for want \nof opportunity, \xe2\x80\x94 and how we are, all of us, not \nso much living in this world as getting ready to \nlive. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn another world. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, and where there will be no such limits on \nour movements as are about us now, and where \nthere will be no fear to chill us, either of enemies \nor friends, or to-morrow, or death. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThank you, Oliver ; for I like what you have \nbeen saying. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSometimes thinking of myself as only one in a \nthousand, it is as though I could not, in the eye \nof God, be any thing ; but then I am what he \nwill care for, when I think that in my soul there \nare a thousand unacted lives. Because, in some \nfew moments of little faith, one may have misgiv- \nings for one\'s self ; but never for a village with a \nthousand inhabitants in it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd you may say this, too, that one soul is with \nthe Lord as a thousand souls, and a thousand \nsouls as one soul. \n\n\n\nETTTHANASY. 187 \n\nATTBIN. \n\nThat thought is like a lens, uncle. There \nshine through it a thousand rays of light from \nheaven. And it brightens with looking at. Yes, \nit does. Sometimes, when I have thought of \nmyself as one of a million persons all unlike one \nanother, I have felt, in the sight of Heaven, as \nthough I were lost, and nothing. And then, again, \nI have had faith as strong as that of a multitude \nwhen I have been in a crowded city, and have \nlooked up to heaven, feeling along with Words- \nworth \n\nThat we have all of us one human heart. \nMARHAM. \n\nYes, one heart, always and everywhere ; now \nin our European civilization, and in the extinct \nspirit of ages past. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nExtinct spirit of past ages ! What you say \nchills me, uncle. It is as though the light of my \nown spirit might be put out. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo, no ! Your soul, Oliver, is not to be worn \naway by time. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNor is the spirit of Rome, nor that of Greece, \nnor that of Egypt, nor that of the Hebrews ; for \nwhat are those on your shelves ? They are not \nbones from a Greek tomb ; they are the very \n\n\n\n188 EUTHANASY. \n\nspirit of ancient Greece ; they are what was \ngrandest in the mind and to the judgment of \nPlato, and Sophocles, and \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, in a library here and there, that spirit \nlives. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd in more libraries now than it ever did in \nmen in Greece. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it does. But in the world it does not live. \n\n\n\nThe whole world is this day better than it \nwould have been if Greece had not been. I \nneed not tell you how the civilization of Greece \nwidened into that of Rome, and so over the whole \nworld ; and how impossible it is that Grecian \nbooks should have been read and studied for ages \nby the best minds, without the minds of the whole \nworld being the better. In the spirit of ancient \nGreece, the great characteristic was the feeling of \nthe beautiful. Now for you to be sure that the \nGreek spirit is living in the world still, I need \nonly ask you to think what the history of art has \nbeen. Some one has said that there is not now a \nsign-board but witnesses, I think, that Rubens \nwas a painter. And it is still truer that Greece \nis living, not in colleges only, but in every town, \nand is to be felt in the common talk of men. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 189 \n\nAnd in our laws, and in half the words we speak, \nRome is living in us English people. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is so, Oliver ; it is so. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so is Judaism ; for in some things we are \nJews, and rightly, or else we could not be Chris- \ntians. For Christ came not to destroy, but to \nfulfil the law of the prophets. Undestroyed, they \nsurvive still ; at least the use, the purpose, of \nthem does. Of Jewish opinions, and Grecian \nfeeling, and Roman manners, it is none of the \ntruth, but only the falsehood, that has perished. \nAll the truth of them is in the human mind now, \nand is everlasting. And myself, I am of Egypt, \nof the time of even the earlier Pharaohs ; and I \nam more than an Egyptian, for I am a Greek ; \nand I am more than a Greek, for I am a Hebrew ; \nand I am more than a Hebrew of the Hebrews, \nfor I am a Christian. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI like your idea, Oliver, very much. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is what makes me consciously immortal. I \nam of many ages past, so that it is not for me to \nfear perishing in a day. And on my very death- \nday I only can seem to perish. Before the world \nwas, God had me in his mind ; and with being \nshut out of his mind what shall frighten me ? \n\n\n\n190 ETJTHANASY. \n\nNot death. For not a sparrow shall fall to the \nground without my Father. \n\nXARHAM. \n\nWhat a saying that was of Christ\'s ! It filled \nthe woods and the air with witnesses of Provi- \ndence. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nMy body* will be dust ; but desolation and ruin \nare the buildings of iAthens, yet the spirit of \nGreece lives on, as I myself feel, and that most \nblessedly ; for so, out of my own experience, I \ncan trust in being myself immortal when disem- \nbodied. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, what Greece was must be living on in the \nhuman mind as inspiration and unsuspected wis- \ndom. But in ancient statues, and in the engrav- \nings of Greek ruins, Greece is everywhere pres- \nent, so as to be looked at. Lycian and Xan- \nthian marbles have been brought to London from \namongst bushes and trees ; and not by chance, I \nthink, \xe2\x80\x94 no, not by chance. The bringing of \nGrecian remains to England seems, under Provi- \ndence, like the gathering up of the fragments of \nancient civilization for nothing to be lost. \n\nAT7BIN. \n\nIn the Campagna, near Rome, the shepherds \nlive in old tombs \n\n\n\nEXJTHANASY. \n\n\n\n191 \n\n\n\n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nHorrible lodgings they would have been for an \nold Roman ; but not so for those who have faith \nin Christ. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAy, and with our larger souls, if we had been \nRomans, the world itself would have felt like a \ntomb, to live in ; and the earth would have been \nto us a mere floor, for nations to be laid under. \nLife, to look at, is mortality from moment to \nmoment ; but it is not so to us, because there is \nplan, there is purpose, there is hope, to be felt in \nit. And there is not a thought of ancient wis- \ndom \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, this life is lit up with the manifest pres- \nence of God in it, for those the eyes of whose \nunderstandings are not blinded. And to feel the \npresence of God is to feel his spirit and ours for \never related. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is so, dear uncle. And, indeed, for a Chris- \ntian, every thing human is suggestive of immortal- \nity. The kingly form of David has been vanish- \ned from this world thousands of years ; but his \npsalms are here still. Many a noble head is dust ; \nbut what thoughts were wrought out in it are \nalive now, and will be for ever. As long as a \nthought has such immortality, the life of my soul \nis not a matter to be feared for. \n\n\n\n192 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nFor our souls live in God far more safely than \nthoughts in the mind ; because in him there is no \nforgetfulness. And from what you have been \nsaying, I think this : that if the Past lives on in us, \nwe may well hope ourselves to live on in God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOn account of our souls, we might perhaps \nhave feared a little, if what was good in Athens \nhad perished ; but it did not. The old ages are \ngone by, but the spirit even of them did not go \ninto nothingness ; nor will my soul, then, ever, by \nany likelihood. In the rise and fall of empires \nthere is Divine purpose. There has been growth \nin the successive forms of civilization, in the \nGreek over the Egyptian, in the Roman over the \nGreek, and in Christian Rome over Pagan Rome, \nand in every age of the Christian world over what \nhas been before. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO Oliver ! ours has been the midsummer of \nthe world\'s history, to live in. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere is in us and about us what is the sci- \nence, the wisdom, the religion, and the worth of \nall the centuries since Adam. Yes, in my char- \nacter there are the effects of Paul\'s journey to \nDamascus, and of the meeting of King John and \nthe barons at Runny mede. There is in my soul \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 193 \n\n\n\nthe seriousness of the many conflicts, and famines, \nand pestilences of early English times. And of \nmy enthusiasm, some of the warmth is from fiery \nwords that my forefathers thrilled to, in the times of \nthe Commonwealth and the Reformation. There \nis in me what has come of the tenderness with \nwhich mothers nursed their children ages ago, and \nsomething that may be traced to the resolute talk \nof Cromwell and his cousin Hampden ; and there \nis that in me which is holy, and which began from \na forty days\' fast in a wilderness in Judea, now \neighteen hundred years since. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn a sense, all the ages that have ever been are \nnow ; they are with us now. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe Past, the infinite Past ! My soul was \nborn of it, and I am spirit of its spirit. O, as I \nlook back at the Past, and think what it is to me, \nI feel as Apollo did as he gazed upon Mnemo- \nsyne, and said, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMute thou remainest \xe2\x80\x94 Mute ! Yet I can read \nA wondrous lesson in thy silent face ; \nKnowledge enormous makes a God of me. \nNames, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, \nMajesties, sovran voices, agonies, \nCreations and destroyings, all at once \nPour into the wide hollows of my brain, \nAnd deify me, as if some blithe wine \nOr bright elixir peerless I had drunk, \nAnd so become immortal. \n13 \n\n\n\n194 EUTHANASY. \n\nO, the way of my soul\'s growth argues eternity \nfor her life ! The Past ! \xe2\x80\x94 as I think of it, and \nhow wonderfully I was born of it, I do feel in me \na something infinite, that persuades me of my im- \nmortality. Thou glorious Past, thou suffering \nPast, thou dear, dear Past ! \n\nI can read \nA wondrous lesson in thy silent face. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt seemed to die every day, but it did not. And \nwe men, \xe2\x80\x94 we seem to die, but we do not. It is \nonly to one another that we die ; for we do not to \nGod, nor to the angels. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nGod ! this life of ours is much too wonderful \nto be despaired of, even at its end. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd through Christ, that end has itself become \nso hopeful, \xe2\x80\x94 so divinely hopeful ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n195 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. \n\n\n\nA trance of high and solemn bliss \n\nFrom purest ether came ; \n\'Mid such a heavenly scene as this, \n\nDeath is an empty name. \xe2\x80\x94 John Wilson. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nA delightful day, is not it, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. But how calm it is. It is so \nprofoundly quiet. A blessed day it is ; and the \ngreat peace of it reaches into the soul. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt does ; and it feels like the peace of God ; \nand so it must be, in some way ; for a troubled \nspirit never feels this calmness of nature. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat is true ; and, uncle, I would widen what \nyou have said, and say, that when the soul is \nmost nearly what it ought to be, it is then fullest \nof faith in what it will be. When we are most \nheavenly in temper, we are in belief surest of be- \ning immortal. Our highest moods are higher than \nany fling of death\'s dart. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is the goodness of God that exempts our \n\n\n\n196 EUTHANASY. \n\nbest experiences from the taint of the charnel- \nhouse. But you seem as though you had anoth- \ner explanation, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle, I have not. The mind is like a \nharp, in which many strings thrill, on one being \nstruck ; and the feeling of the beautiful and that \nof the infinite are nigh one another. What I mean \nis, that beauty is to the feeling as though it were \neverlasting. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nEvanescent, surely, Oliver. For of all beauty- \nthere is one emblem, \xe2\x80\x94 the grass, which is in the \nfield to-day, and to-morrow in the oven. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTrees please me much to look at, and walk \namongst, and sit under. But that they will rot \nand fall never troubles me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is because most trees are as long-lived \nas we men, and some are a hundred times longer. \nBut over and over again we see the flowers fade. \nAnd the more we like them, the more decaying \nthis world must feel. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNo ; but the fresher and the newer. For do \nnot the flowers, when they have gone out of blos- \nsom, come into it again ? What decays in flow- \ners is the pulp, which is not what you care for ; \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 197 \n\nbut the beauty in them, that you love, never per- \nishes, and every year it is fresh to look at. O, \nto me flowers are words about a life more spirit- \nual than is plainly to be signified in this earth by \nthings springing out of it ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd they so frail ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhen Jesus spoke, his words thrilled on the \nair a very short time ; and yet there was an ever* \nlastingness in them,, which an angel would have \nknown at once. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, what the Pharisees thought was only gen- \ntle breath did outlive their boasted temple, as \nsome of them lived to know ; and will survive the \nvery earth, as we live late enough to be sure of. \nIn Galilee and in Jewry, many centuries ago, \nthere were low sounds on the air for little spaces \nof time ; but there were ears through which they \nproved to be doctrines, and revolutions, and the \ncoming of the kingdom of God on the earth. \nThings are not always what they seem, even to \nall men. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo much depends on the way of regarding \nthem. And so what are emblems of decay to \nsome men are to me suggestive of eternity and \nyouth. Sometimes, in looking at a flower, my \n\n\n\n\n198 ETJTHANASY. \n\nmind is drawn into a mood that is like a firm per- \nsuasion of immortality, it is so largely thoughtful \nand full of peace. That word which was made \nflesh is the greatest word that God has spoken to \nthe children of men ; and there are many ways in \nwhich he never leaves himself without witness in \nthe world ; and I like to think that flowers were \nmeant to be what I feel them, \xe2\x80\x94 the undertones \nof encouragement, in which the Creator speaks to \nus creatures, in a world in which sometimes the \nthunder is his voice, and fire and hail and stormy \nwinds the fulfilment of his word. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nOnce I had been gazing up at a very high rock, \nfor some time, in awe ; and at the foot of it, I re- \nmember the pleasure, almost the relief, it was to \nme to notice and examine a little pimpernel ; for \nthat I think it was. It rested my strained eye- \nsight and overwrought feelings. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nAnd did not it rest your spirit, to see that \nProvidence, in its works, is infinitely minute, as \nwell as awfully vast ? For that is no small com- \nfort to know. I think the discoveries of the tel- \nescope would have been dreadful, but for the mi- \ncroscope. God\'s throne has risen above this \nearth inconceivably high ; but, another way, the \nDivine condescension is to be seen reaching un- \nexpectedly and infinitely low. In a field, or on \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 199 \n\nthe side of a brook, when I see a forget-me-not, \nI think to myself, He has not forgotten even thee. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn a writer of the fifteenth century, I remember \nthat there is a passage in which he says that the \nuniverse is the handwriting of God, and all ob- \njects are words in it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd very significant words some of them are. \nAt the end of winter, the snowdrop comes out \nof the ground quietly, and like a word that is ex- \npected, and renews the promise, that seed-time \nshall not fail. And in autumn, the ears of corn, \nyellow, and bending heavily on the stalk, are \nthemselves the certainty that harvest shall not \ncease. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOur Lord says, " Consider the lilies of the \nfield." And no doubt there is more in a lily \nthan has been considered yet, and very much \nmore than colors and leaves. To most men, \nthere is in the stalk only sap ; but there is really \nin it the presence of God every moment, arraying \nthe plant in glory. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd that is blessedness to know ; for with \nevery feeling of that truth, God is felt in our- \nselves, and the feeling of God is that of our im- \nmortality. \n\n\n\n200 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, in our minds any thought of God may be \nalmighty in its effects. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI have God to believe in, and so I am immor- \ntal. Sometimes I feel this, O, so strongly ! and \nthen at other times there is no meaning in it. \nAnd sometimes I am made conscious of my im- \nmortal nature by such beauty as comes and goes \nin a moment, \xe2\x80\x94 summer lightning, a shadow\'s \npassing over a sunlit valley, the smile of a wo- \nman \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is so, uncle. In the feeling of beauty there \nis no taint of decay or death. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA painting is colored canvas, and an engraving \nis paper printed on ; and both are very perish- \nable. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo they are, and so are the leaves of the Bi- \nble ; but the Gospel is not. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut the Gospel is not in the ink and paper, but \nin the meaning made in the mind of the reader. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd in art beautiful objects are things by which \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 201 \n\nsouls understand one \'another. There is York \nMinster. I look at its western front, \xe2\x80\x94 I go \nthrough the door, and. up the nave, and into the \nchoir, and up to the east window. And round my \nhead I am conscious, as it were, of the sublimity \nof the stars, and under my feet the floor feels as \nthough it were low, very low, down in the earth. \nI experience what the builder meant, \xe2\x80\x94 how hu- \nmility is the basis of that character which has \nglory for its crown. I return down the aisle in the \nspirit of the place, and I feel that, while walking \nhumbly with God, there is heaven above a man \nvery soon about to open. I understand by York \nMinster what the man who built it wished. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat Minster is a noble thought made into \nstone, and he who feels it does feel what was \nthe mind of a Christian artist five hundred years \nsince. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so this earth is a thought of God\'s, and \nto know and feel what it is is to understand some- \nthing of the mind of God. Now to me, uncle, \nthe loveliness of this scene from the window is \nlike the smile of Almightiness. It feels so, and \nit is so. See under that tree how the shadows \nplay ! O, how very, very beautiful it is ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, it is pretty, very. \n\n\n\n202 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nPretty ! It is beautiful. Yes ! and there is \nthat to be felt in it that is like learning the mind \nof God, and rinding it to be love, infinite love. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTrees and flowers, turf, ground a little undu- \nlated, and yonder a brook ; that is what you see, \nOliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA little earth shaped into a pair of cheeks, and \npinched into a nose, and made into lips, chin, and \nforehead, and with some humors mixed together \nfor eyes, \xe2\x80\x94 these are a face. But though only \nclay, yet they are expressive of faith, hope, and \nlove, despair and hatred, and every passion. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd every degree of every passion ; the face 1 \nis so wonderfully expressive of the mind within. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so is nature of what is Divine within it. \nThis morning I sat alone in the garden ; and all \nabout me things looked so lovely, so imbued with \nspirit, that I felt myself circled with love and \nbeauty ; and my soul within me yearned like a \nchild in its mother\'s arms. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI saw you, and I was coming to you, but I \nfancied your thoughts were making you good \ncompany. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 203 \n\nATJBIN. \n\nWhat Godhead is in nature I feel about me, \nthough not familiarly, but with something of awe \nand distance in it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut is not it the mind itself which colors the \nearth with meaning ? for it is not always, nor to \nmany men, that nature is what you speak of. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nBecause we are not always, nor often, in our \nbest moods ; and they are our best that are our \ntruest. If you had Leonardo da Vinci\'s Last \nSupper in this library, how often would you ex- \nperience the spirit of it ? Not every moment \nyou were here, nor every day, nor rightly even \nevery week, perhaps, but only in some more ex- \nalted seasons. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTrue ; and what we felt at our best would be \nmost nearly what the painter meant. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd it is the same with the meaning that comes \nout in a landscape, or in any view of nature, in \nour best moments. Now this morning, as I sat \nunder the tree, \xe2\x80\x94 indeed always, when my soul \nis in sympathy with nature, my feeling is that of a \njoyful recognition of God. It is as though out \nof some infinite distance the face of the Father \nAlmighty were becoming visible, smiling upon me \nin encouragement and love. \n\n\n\n204 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd do not you feel that the truth of all truth \nis God, and that the goodness of all good things \nis God, and that God is the inspiration of all ex- \ncellence, and that every good and perfect gift is \nfrom above ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. And so in reading a good book, \nthe truth and beauty of it are witnesses to me of \nmy relationship to God, as his child. What is \ntrue to my mind is true to God ; and what is \ngoodness to my feeling is good in the eye of God. \nBut how do I know this ? By inward feeling. I \nam strongly persuaded of it from within myself. \nBut it is from what is outside me, as well as by \ninward feeling, that I know that what is beautiful \nwith me is beautiful with God ; I know it by what \nGod has made. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd God made the human soul, and he pro- \nportioned its feelings like the strings of a harp ; \nand in its better and believing seasons the music \nit makes is what the Father of spirits listens, to and \nloves. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat is blessedly certain. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the hearts of little children there is many a \nfeeling, the strain of which their angels do often \n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 205 \n\n\n\nhymn before the face of their Father which is in \nheaven. And in silent chambers there are those \nwhose thoughts at night are like organ-music in \nthe ear of God, they are so beautiful, and great, \nand solemn ; though, as being pure worship of the \nspirit, they must be more acceptable to him, in- \nfinitely, than any music made with hands. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe knowledge of every such man is very dear. \nBecause over every one out of whose heart the \nSpirit cries, " Father ! Father ! " Christian faith \nhears the voice of God making answer, " My \nson ! my son ! " \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI like what you say, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI was thinking of you, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI only wish, \xe2\x80\x94 but \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd that I was thinking rightly, I know by the \ncalm effect your company has on my mind. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou were going to speak about the spiritual \nwitness there is in the beauty of nature. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhen tree, or river, or rock shows beauty, and \nmy soul answers to it, it is as though the spirit of \nnature said, " We understand one another ; and so \n\n\n\n\n206 EUTHANASY. \n\nthou art mine and I am thine." And then every \nthing in nature feels dear ; and death, if not very- \ndear, feels beautiful, and worthy of infinite trust. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAlways may we feel it so ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSummer and winter, sunshine and darkness, \nrolling seas and high mountains, \xe2\x80\x94 unlike one \nanother though they are, there is that in me that \nis like them all. They are witnesses to me of \nmyself. For the beauty of each one of them -I \nfeel, and the spirit that is in them all I am akin \nto. If only flowers, or only trees, or only some \none class of objects in nature, were beautiful to \nus, then their perishing might infect us with mor- \ntal fears. But now all things are made beautiful \nto us in their time ; all things of God\'s making \nare. And the feeling of this is fellow-feeling \nwith God. And in any thing, but very strongly \nin all great things, fellow-feeling with God is per- \nsuaded of co-eternity with him. Now at the view \nfrom this window I can look and look till I feel \ninwardly immortal. \n\nMARRAM. \n\nI cannot say that I have ever felt it much my- \nself, but from the temples and the religious history \nof all ages I should suppose that there is a state \nof mind in which beauty is to be felt like a Divine \npresence. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 207 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBeauty in nature, and as felt by a Christian \nspirit, \xe2\x80\x94 this is what I think is a manifestation of \nGod. Uncle, look at the garden ; see the flow- \ners, and the apple-trees, and the lilacs in blossom. \nAnd in the field beyond how white the hawthorn \nis ! And then there are the poplars, so leafy and \nstraight, and as though standing against the sky \nbehind. Now does not the sight of a scene like \nthis make in the mind the peace of God ? And \nthis peaceful feeling must be God\'s meaning, and \nnot mere chance in us. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut may it not be mere contentment of the \nsoul, and not what is any way a promise of an \nhereafter ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle ; I think not. And that is nearly all \nI can answer you. O, yes, there is something \nthat occurs to me ! If in our souls there were no \nfeeling of infinity, mountains would not be sub- \nlime to us ; they would only be craggy steeps, \nand no more to us than to the goat and the cha- \nmois. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd that something of the infinite which there \nis in the soul betokens a higher relationship than \nwhat the grave can close on. \n\n\n\n208 EITTHANASY. \n\n\n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe mountains make in us a feeling sublimer \nthan of what they are themselves. But they are \nwhat they are to us, because there is that in our \nnature through w T hich height beyond height might \nrise before us in the universe, and so our souls \ngrow grander and more solemn ; but only to feel \nmore grandly and more solemnly at further higher \nsights, for ever. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat there is of infinity in our souls does lay \nhold of the gates of heaven for us. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nWhile we have been in valleys, and on moun- \ntains, and the banks of rivers, what feelings have \ngrown in us in this England of ours will be the \nbeginnings of our delight in the fields of heaven. \nSometimes, at the sight of a sublime scene, or a \nbeautiful landscape, or a glorious sunset, first my \nfeeling is delight, next it is worship, and then it is \na presentiment of heaven ; for I think to myself \nthat this earth, at its loveliest, is hardly even the \nforecourt of the temple. And certainly, than \nthis it is no nigher to himself that God has ad- \nmitted us earthly worshippers. But though not \ncalled so, death is that Beautiful gate through \nwhich we shall pass on into the temple, and to- \nwards the Holy of holies, where the pure in heart \nare blest with the sight of God. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 209 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. \n\nA Healer, a Redeemer came, \n\nA Son of Man, with love and power ; \n\nAnd an all-animated flame \n\nHe kindled in our inmost soul. \n\nThen first we saw the heavens unfold ; \n\nThey seemed an ancient father-land : \n\nAnd now we could believe and hope, \n\nAnd feel we were akin to God. \xe2\x80\x94 Novalis. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou have been looking at your watch these \nfive minutes. What do you see, Oliver ? \n\nATJBIN. \n\nMore than I can speak of ; and I hear more \nthan I can tell of well. Tick, tick, tick ! Gone, \ngone, gone ! As fast as this watch goes, men \ndie, \xe2\x80\x94 a man a moment. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIs it so ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, very nearly. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, it is a thing to think of. And the more \none thinks, the faster time seems to go ; and fast- \ner and faster it seems as though men were dying. \nAs one listens, it is as though the watch were \n14 \n\n\n\n210 EUTHANASY. \n\nsaying all manner of warnings, \xe2\x80\x94 now then, now \nthen ! \xe2\x80\x94 thy turn, thy turn ! \xe2\x80\x94 \'t will be, \'t will \nbe ! And so it will be ; and God knows how \nsoon. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd only he knows the witness this watch \nmight witness about me, for I have forgotten my- \nself ; or rather, my brain has, for my spirit has \nnot, because it will be all surviving in me here- \nafter. Round the face of this watch, every min- \nute-mark has been the date of some impulse I \nhave felt and followed, right or wrong, and that I \nshall remember hereafter, and, as I trust, when I \nam in glory ; and every such recollection will \nmake me feel myself then, more and more devout- \nly, a miracle of grace. And that will soon be, \nperhaps. On, on, on ! says the watch ; on, on, \non ! And on it goes, and on time goes, and on \nthe world goes. Tick, tick, tick ! And only \nwith this, Venus is a hundred miles farther away ; \nand it is another part of the sun that shines on \nMercury ; and girdled about with rings, and cir- \ncled about with moons, Saturn is not where he \nwas ; and perhaps out of a million stars, there is \nnot one but has changed its place. And all with \nless noise than the going of this watch, and with \nless effort, perhaps ; and, indeed, certainly ; for \nwith Almightiness there cannot be any effort at all. \nI do not discern it, for I am in the flesh ; but on \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 211 \n\nthe face of my watch, here, among these twelve, \none will be the hour of my death , and there is a \nminute here that will be my last breath. This \nfinger moves on slowly and surely, and over fhe \nwhole face it will turn, and many a time, per- \nhaps ; but for all that, like a finger along the lines \nof a death-warrant, it is moving on to point the \ntime of my departure hence. And the next min- \nute afterwards some one will take up this very \nwatch, perhaps, and remark to himself the hour \nand the minute of my death. But the very mo- \nment that I breathe out my last breath, somebody \nwill draw his last. And before it will be well \nknown that I am dead, quite a company of spirits \nwill have come forth with me out of this earthly \nlife. And then where shall we find ourselves, \xe2\x80\x94 \nay, where ? Day and night, summer and winter, \nlife and death, \xe2\x80\x94 these our planetary changes will \nbe over. But if we shall have done with this \nearth, shall we have done with our planetary sys- \ntem ? But why not ? for shall we not have al- \nready learned the great starry lesson ? and are \nthere not some human minds in which the mate- \nrial system exists almost as clearly as it does in \nthe eye of God, \xe2\x80\x94 both the stars in their move- \nments, and the earth in what it is ? Such knowl- \nedge has God allowed us, and it is very won- \nderful. \n\n\n\n212 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the heathen it would be ; but it is not in us \nChristians, to whom he has given the knowledge \nof his Son. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nRight, uncle. For that knowledge is deeper, \nand higher, and wider, and more enduring, and of \nquite another nature, than what is got through the \ntelescope, and perfected by mathematics ; for, in- \ndeed, it is infinite. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is a sound thought, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe stars differ from one another in size, and \nsome of them in color ; and what any one of them \nmight be to visit, there is no knowing. But I \nthink they are an unlikely home, any one of them, \nfor us Christians, on whom the ends of the world \nhave come, as some Apostle expresses it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is a thing I never thought of ; but why un- \nlikely ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUnlikely is perhaps too strong a word. And \nit is possible, before being free of the universe, \nthat we may be surrounded awhile with " the \nbands of Orion," or be bound within " the sweet \ninfluences of the Pleiades." But why should \nwe ? For it is likely that their starry elements \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 213 \n\nare not very different from these of our earth. \nAnd this of our earth is a way of life we are ex- \nperienced in now ; though many die out of the \nearth, knowing little or nothing of it. Then how \nmany thousand nights we have seen the stars, and \nseen them with bright eyes, and with tearful eyes, \nand in every mood, so that, perhaps, there is \nnothing new to be felt in their sight ! But of that \none cannot be sure ; for they may wear quite \nanother look in the sight of creatures redeemed, \nimmortal, and crowned, to what they do in eyes \nthat have weariness, and passion, and tears in them. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd dimness and watchings, an older man would \nadd. But, says the Scripture, there remaineth a \nrest. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNow blessed be Paul for that one word, \xe2\x80\x94 rest. \nIt makes one feel like a child in the evening of a \nsummer\'s day, and it makes one\'s death-bed as \nsoft to think of as going to sleep. Rest, rest ! \nIs not the sound of the word so soothing ? It \nwill be a world of rest ; and so it will hardly be \na world like this earth, with clouds driving over \nit, and with seas in it ebbing and flowing, and \nnever still, and with winds rising and falling, and \nblowing now one way and now another. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGreen pastures are what David \n\n\n\n214 ETJTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMany objects in this earth are what things in \nheaven will be like. Meadows we shall lie down \nin ; and there will be in our ears the murmur of \nthe river of water of life ; and over us there will \nbe a tree of life, and through the leaves of it, \nsome rays of the light of God will shine upon us \nin that blessed shade ; and we shall eat of the \nfruit of the tree, because it is for the healing of \nthe nations : and just at first we shall not venture \nto look into the full glory beyond, for we shall be \nonly fresh out of the darkness of this earth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd God will be all and in all, and \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAll and in all ! He will be in the river of life, \nflowing alongside us ; and he will be in the tree \nthat shades us, and in the light that shines through \nit ; and he will be in us, ourselves. He will be \neverlasting growth of spirit in us, and he will be \npeace and joy. Ay, there will be then one soul \nof joy in us and in God. We in him, he will be \nin us. We shall be nerves in his infinite blessed- \nness, and for ever be thrilled with delight. And, \nperhaps, what is done divinely on one side of \nheaven will gladden us on the other ; for we \nshall be in God, and God will be then, as he is \nnow, glad in all things. Ay, this, \xe2\x80\x94 this is the \nthing to think of. God in us, and we in God, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 215 \n\n\n\nthis one certainty of what heaven will be is \nenough for us. For of the manner of the future \nlife we do know nothing. There is nothing told \nus. Perhaps there could not be. And, indeed, \nwhy should it be told us how we are to live the \nfirst instant after death, any more than what fresh \nexperiences we shall have age after age in eter- \nnity ? Sufficient for our day is the light we have ; \nand to-morrow, if we have things to do not of this \nearth, then we shall be lighted for our work in \nanother way than we are now. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAy, if we would only walk by what light we \nhave, instead of standing still to wonder how it \nshines, and whether we might not have had much \nmore of it than what we have ! In all things it \nseems to be a rule, that we should have no great- \ner light than what we can use, and ought to use. \nI suppose it is for knowledge always to feel the \nsame as duty. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYonder shines the sun, looking as though he \nwere only the light of our sky, and not as though \nhe were to be seen in ten or twelve other firma- \nments. It is all as though he rose in our east, \nand went round our sky, and down in our west. \nAnd the look of it quite agrees with what our \nstate is. For we are only dwellers of this earth, \nand not creatures of the solar system. What du- \n\n\n\n216 EUTHANASY. \n\nties am I made to owe in Jupiter, or Mars, or \nany of the other planets, that my eyes should \nhave been fashioned in such a way as for me to \nsee at a glance what look the sun has as he \nshines in their skies ? No doubt, astronomy has \nproved profitable knowledge ; but it is not holi- \nness. Why the sun shines for us is to light us to \nour duties, which are all to be done on this earth. \nHereafter, there may be purposes for which we \nshall see the sun shining in another way than he \ndoes to us now. Ay, and does not this suggest \nhow God will grow for ever on our gaze ? O, \nmany are the thoughts about him, and many are \nthe ways of feeling towards him, that are withheld \nfrom us as yet ; because, though he is in himself \nfrom everlasting to everlasting, still, to our experi- \nence, he is no more than the Father of our as yet \nearthly spirits. Let our thoughts be as familiar \nonly with a few ages as they are now with years ; \nlet us see another world or two beside this earth, \nand sympathize with some forms of spiritual life, \nand know a few of the truths that shape into ex- \nistence in seraphs\' minds ; \xe2\x80\x94 and all this let us \nlearn, loving God the while, like his children ; \nand we cannot even think the grandeur, and the \nstrength, and the rapture, with which the thought \nof God will quicken in us. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTrue, very true. And very glad I am at what \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 217 \n\nyou have been saying, Oliver. For, Oliver, why \nI cannot tell, but always the greatness of the uni- \nverse has been to me an oppressive thought. \nAstronomy is no delight to me, but appalling. \nOur earth is not the only planet that belongs to \nour sun, nor the largest ; it is only one out of \nmany, and it is a thousand times smaller than \nsome of the others. In thinking of the solar sys- \ntem, this earth feels to be nothing ; and it is pain- \nfully nothing, in comparison with the thousands of \nsuns we know of, and the myriads of other suns \nthat are shining beyond the reach of our eyes. \nThe rays of the sun are swift, and the light *of the \nstars is quite as quick. So that sometimes my \nheart has almost withered in me, as I have thought \nat night of the rays of some stars having been \ntravelling towards this earth longer than my life. \nIt is light from such a distance, as makes the \nword infinite sound dreadfully. Sometimes when \nI have been thinking astronomically of this earth \nand the sun, and the millions of other suns there \nare, and of what I am in it all, I have been as \nthough lost, \xe2\x80\x94 I have been quite overwhelmed \nwith my nothingness. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNow, uncle, that has not been my feeling ever. \nFor the sun could not shine long without me, \nnor this earth continue. For in the universe ele- \nments and forces are so exactly proportioned, \n\n\n\n218 EUTHANASY. \n\nthat the least change in one would disorder the \nrest, and so destroy the creation. It is said that \nnot an atom of matter could be struck from exist- \nence, without being the ruin of the universe. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nIt may be true ; and it would be indisputably \ntrue, if the universe were no more than the curi- \nous machinery which it is often thought. But its \nworking is more than that of mechanism ; it is that \nof an infinite spirit. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI quite agree with you, uncle. And so we \noughu to be hopeful and cheerful ; for in all things \nabout us, is not there the presence of a spirit, \nwise, loving, and almighty ? Providence is infi- \nnitely careful, as well as infinitely vast. It is not \nmore likely that I should be forgotten by God, \nthan that a star, a world, a sun, should be. In \nthe universe I am not a mere accident. Nay, \nthe very hairs of my head are all numbered, and \nnot one of them can fall without my Father ; and \nif it could, it would be into annihilation ; and \nthrough that, there would be a time when this \nearth would begin to shake, and the planets to \nerr upon their orbits ; and from star to star, and \nfrom one constellation to another, the heavens \nwould begin to wear toward their destruction. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nAnd pass away they will, some time. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 219 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYour mind can think the blotting out of the \nstars ; and so the light that is in you is greater \nthan what is in them all, \xe2\x80\x94 greater in its kind. A \ndestructive blast might go forth and extinguish our \nsun, and other suns, one after another, down infi- \nnite space, but your soul be swept over, and be \nleft behind, a light undimmed. \n\nB1ARHAM. \n\nWhat you have said this afternoon will do me \ngood. The vastness of creation has been to me \nan oppressive thought : and yet it ought not to \nhave been ; for I might have been sure there was \nsome cheerful way of thinking of it. For even \nof clouds, the darkest have all an edging of light, \nshowing that there is the sun behind them. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd there is this consideration, uncle, in which \nI am sure you will agree. As I have said before, \nto us earthly creatures the sun looks, and was \nmeant to look, as the sun only of our sky, and not \nas the luminary of ten or twelve or more firma- \nments. For my seeing him shine on other worlds \nwould be of no use to me for what I have to do \nin this earth, nor would it make me more loving, \nor dutiful, or devout. And so I know of God \nwhat is good for me ; but there is knowledge of \nhim withheld from me, \xe2\x80\x94 such knowledge as in \nmy present circumstances I should not be the bet- \n\n\n\n220 ETTTHANASY. \n\nter for having, perhaps ; but yet such as for not \nhaving I may be the wiser, that is, the humbler. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMany things we are ignorant of in this world. \nAnd how should it be otherwise with us ? And \nmany things will never be known of in this earth \nat all. There are directions into which inquiries \nmight be made, were it not for the darkness. But \nit is holy darkness ; and what makes man the \nholier, when it is rightly felt. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI know that darkness is good for me, as well as \nlight, and that it is good for me not to know some \nthings, as well as to know others ; and for myself, \nI can pray to God out of my whole heart and \nwith the strength of my understanding, " Thy \nwill be done on earth, as it is in heaven " ; else \nthere is not a flower, nor an insect, nor a bird, \nnor an animal, nor a day, nor a man, but might \nmake me question myself to madness. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, Oliver, you have felt the same as I have. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhy was not yonder butterfly created an an- \ngel ? for it would not then have taken up more \nroom in the universe than it does now. One rea- \nson of its life may be for me to wonder about it. \nFor if we grew up in the knowledge of every \nthing, we should never grow devout. In every \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 221 \n\nway of thinking of it, and in every question which \ncan be asked regarding it, this world is mystery ; \nso as to shut us up on the only truth which can be \nanswered about it, \xe2\x80\x94 the will of God. But O \nthe wondrousness of that answer ! for in the \nearnest making of it we ourselves are made god- \nlike, \xe2\x80\x94 are made to feel ourselves children of the \nHighest. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou have said the very thing, Oliver, which \noften and often I have wanted to know ; though \nI do not know that I ought to have been in want \nof it ; and indeed I have tried not to think of \nsome things which have come into my mind. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nI can so easily bewilder myself about the De- \nity, if I think of him as the God of the hosts of \nheaven, \xe2\x80\x94 every host a myriad times, ten myriad \ntimes, more numerous than the inhabitants of this \nworld ; also if I think of him as the Creator of \nangels and archangels, and so the God of many a \nmillion worlds besides this of ours, and as a Being \nfrom everlasting to everlasting, and as almighty, \nyet allowing of death in this world of his. All \nthis is true, and I know it to be true : but such \nthoughts are too high for me ; for I can gaze at \nthem, and strain my eyes after where they lead, \ntill I feel blind, and could grow so. In every \nway God is infinite, and so I never could have \n\n\n\n222 EUTHANASY. \n\nlearned him of myself. But he has shown him- \nself as the sun of our firmament. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAs the Father of our Lord Jesus. Stars, and \nages, and infinities, \xe2\x80\x94 these are not the way to \nthink of God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThey can awe a spirit, but enlighten it they \ncannot. At least they cannot be the beginning of \nlight in the soul ; but Christian belief, when it \nhas begun, draws into itself light from almost ev- \nery thing. To understand at all what life means, \none must begin with Christian belief. And I \nthink knowledge may be sorrow with a man, un- \nless he loves. It is my right, and there is some \nduty in it, too, to learn all that is to be known of \nwhat the ages and the great men of this world \nhave been, and of the worlds beyond worlds \nwhich are round us every way. But the look \nof the firmament itself hints wisdom to us ; for \nbounded by the horizon, all the world round me \nis only a few miles. From which I may feel, that \nfor me the world is specially meant to be what is \njust about me, \xe2\x80\x94 what I can see and talk with \nmen in, and be kind in, and do duty in. Let me \nbe right with the world about me, and the whole \nworld beyond will then look right towards me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThank you, Oliver ; for you have "instructed \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 223 \n\nand you have delighted me very much this after- \nnoon. And your imagination is not lawless, as I \nhave sometimes feared it might perhaps be, a \nlittle, a very, very little : but it is not. It is re- \nligiously chastened ; it is hither and thither, but \nit is to do Christian work : it is lowly service at \nthe door of the church ; and it is a noble hymn in \nthe choir; and it is a voice from the pulpit like a \nclarion ; and in quieter moments it is a vision of \nheaven and hell, and unearthly things. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYou are yourself imaginative, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI ! not I ! No, Oliver, no ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, you are, my dear uncle ; and now and \nthen very beautifully so ; but more so in talking \nwith me than with any one else, I think. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat time is it, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTen minutes to five. Which time of the \ntwenty-ninth of May, of the year eighteen hun- \ndred and forty-seven, will never be again, \xe2\x80\x94 \nnever, \xe2\x80\x94 not ever. Every day the world is \nripening against that harvest which is to be at the \nend of it ; slowly, perhaps ; and yet not so very \nslowly considering what the fruits of it are to be, \nfor they will be eternal ; they will be souls, \xe2\x80\x94 \neverlasting souls. \n\n\n\n224 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA very beautiful afternoon ! And so sweet the \nair is ; is not it, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nthat lark ! He is up, singing his thanks after \nyonder cloud, for having dropped a few big rain- \ndrops on the field ; for his nest is in it ; and so \nthe grass smells more sweetly to his mate. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt must have been on an afternoon like this that \nholy George Herbert first sung his four verses on \nvirtue ; playing the while on the theorbo. \n\nAUBIN. \n\n1 should like to hear them, uncle. Will you \nrepeat them ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNow you must like them, Oliver ; for I do very \nmuch. \n\nSweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, \nThe bridal of the earth and sky ; \nThe dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; \nFor thou must die. \n\nSweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, \nBids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; \nThy root is ever in its grave, \nAnd thou must die. \n\nSweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, \nA box where sweets compacted lie ; \nMy music shows ye have your closes, \nAnd all must die. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 225 \n\nOnly a sweet and virtuous soul, \nLike seasoned timber, never gives ; \nBut though the whole world turn to coal, \nThen chiefly lives. \n\nGeorge Herbert ! Holy George Herbert ! It \nis more than two hundred years since he was \nliving. Since he was living, did I say ? As \nthough he had been any thing else but living ! \nBetween him and me there have dawned and \ndarkened nearly eighty thousand days ; and yet \nhe is to me as though he lived yesterday. And \nif he is this to me, then, very certainly, he is \nmore than this to God. It is long, \xe2\x80\x94 long, \xe2\x80\x94 a \nspace of two revolutions and many wars, since \nGeorge Herbert lived at Bemerton. And yet \nthrough eighty millions of English people who \nhave lived between him and me do I feel him, \nfeel his feelings, feel his having been in the earth. \nI am only one of so many brothers of his, but \nhis spirit has not died to me ; and if to me his \nspirit has not died, then how it must be living on \nto God ! O Lord, thou lover of souls ! You \nlook at me, Oliver, as though you thought those \nwords were my own ; but no, \xe2\x80\x94 they are not. \nThey are from the Wisdom of Solomon, and very \nbeautiful they are. I like repeating them, \xe2\x80\x94 O \nLord, thou lover of souls ! \n\n\n\n15 \n\n\n\n226 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXL \n\nPraise God, creature of earth, for the mercies linked with secrecy, \nThat spices of uncertainty enrich thy cup of life. \nPraise God, his hosts on high, for the mysteries that make all joy ; \nWhat were intelligence, with nothing more to learn, or heaven, in eternity \nof sameness ? \xe2\x80\x94 M. F. Tuppek. \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere is no knowing what a day may bring \nforth. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere is many a one for whom that is almost \nall the happiness of his life, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the midst of life we are in death. Life is so \nuncertain ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO, this uncertainty is great wealth, and it is \nthe freshness of existence. And there are those \nwho could not keep living from year to year with- \nout it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDo you think so ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTo-day I am poor, ill, and friendless. But \nto-morrow I may be, \xe2\x80\x94 ay, what may I not be ? \n\n\n\nEUTHANAST. 227 \n\nAll over the world there will be changes ; and \nwhy not so in my lot ? Next week there may \nchance to me some mechanical discovery that \nmay enrich me ; or I may be reestablished in my \nhealth ; or I may meet, and from the other side \nof the world, perhaps, a woman who may become \nmy wife ; or I may have thoughts come into my \nmind that will be for the good and the love of \nmultitudes of men. These are possible things, \nthough riot likely. But this is no improbability, \n\xe2\x80\x94 my dying to-morrow. I may never be rich, \nmarried, famous, healthy ; but I shall be still \nmore changed ; for a spirit I shall, I must, be- \ncome some time. Die, \xe2\x80\x94 I may die to-morrow, \nand so to-morrow prove heir to a crown immor- \ntal, and feel in my soul the look of eyes purer \nand more loving than any that have glanced at me \nyet ; and have throng into my mind thoughts, O, \nso beautiful, and blessed, and great ! And any \nday this may happen to me ; for death keeps no \nJewish Sabbath any more than the sun does. And \nsometimes I could be glad of it ; for to some \nmoods of my mind that would be a gloomy day \nindeed, on which the earthly could not become \nthe heavenly. But now there is no day forbidden \nto immortalize man. To-day, to-morrow, the \nday after, any day, gates may be thrown open, \nand I enter in, and gems and sapphires be pov- \nerty with me, and kings and princes an unheed- \n\n\n\n228 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\ned company. Any day I may die, and so there \nis no day but feels like a porch that may, per- \nhaps, open into the next world. Yes, death, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe hourly possibility of it, \xe2\x80\x94 death is the sub- \nlimity of life. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 229 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. \n\n\n\nIn some hour of solemn jubilee \nThe massy gates of Paradise are thrown \nWide open, and forth come, in fragments wild, \nSweet echoes of unearthly melodies, \nAnd odors snatched from beds of amaranth, \nAnd they that from the crystal river of life \nSpring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales ! \nThe favored good man in his lonely walk \nPerceives them, and his silent spirit drinks \nStrange bliss, which he shall recognize in heaven. \n\nColeridge. \n\n\n\nATTBIN. \n\nO this earth, this dear, green earth, this hap- \npy, happy earth ! It will be happy and beautiful \nwithout us soon. We shall be out of the earth \nsoon, \xe2\x80\x94 out of this world, but not out of its beau- \nty. The grace that rises from the earth in many \na tree ; the fascination that eddies and murmurs \nin flowing water,\' keeping the gazer standing on \nthe river-side ; the beauty that lives along the \nplain, and sometimes that draws man\'s outstretch- \ned hands towards itself, as though in recognition ; \nthe loveliness that in a valley is round and over \nman, and embosomed in which he feels unearth- \nly and sublimed ; the dear and fearful beauty of \nthe lightning ; the wild grandeur of a September \nsunset, various, and living, and glowing ; all \n\n\n\n230 EUTHANASY. \n\nthese we shall see again; no, \xe2\x80\x94 not see; for \nthese things themselves we shall not see ; but \nwhat is in them all we shall feel again, and drink \ninto everlastingly. And it will be a dearer de- \nlight than it is now, and intenser and fuller. For \nthen, O God, we shall be in thee and of thee ; \nand thou wilt be to us like an ocean of delight, \nour little spirits being bathed in thine infinite \nspirit. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAmen, O Lord, Amen ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd it will be ; just as we are sure of loving \nagain, because God is love. O, I have some- \ntimes felt, in the country, what I fondly think \nmay be not unlike the way of our feeling in the \nnext world ! \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nWhy, Oliver, what can you mean ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\n"When I was a boy I used to* ramble into the \ncountry, and oftenest into a quiet valley, for \nblackberries and nuts. But I never got many \nwhen I went alone. For in the woods I seldom \nwas long, before becoming possessed by a spirit, \nlike what the Greeks imagined was Pan. A fear- \nful pleasure ! At first it seemed as though the \nlow wind whispered me ; and then, as though it \nwaited about me and curled round my face. If a \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 231 \n\nbranch waved, it was toward me ; and if a leaf \nfluttered, so did my heart. It was as though my \nspirit had melted into the spirit of the woods. \nThen I would sit down and wonder at myself in \nawe, and joy, and tears. And the awe in my \nspirit would deepen, and the joy too, and my \ntears would fall faster, till I felt as the child Sam- \nuel may have done in the temple, while waiting \nfor the Lord to speak. And there was speech \nfrom God to me at those times ; because, from \nmy feelings then, I am now sure, even of myself, \nof the blessedness with which God is to be felt \nby the pure in heart. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere are many of the feelings of childhood \nlittle understood, and some of which, I do not \ndoubt, are vague yearnings after God. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nOn the Rhine, and overhanging it, is the Lur- \nleiberg, a rock. One evening in August I sat \nupon it. Up and down the river, on one side, \nwere vineyards, and on the other, thick trees, and \nacross it was the little town of Bingen ; but from \nwhere I was, it seemed to contract into nothing, \nas I looked at it, and so did my worldly thoughts. \nAnd into my soul slid the calmness of the scene, \nand then the sublimity of it. The air was like a \nliving presence about me, and the rock under- \nneath me was like that of my salvation ; and from \n\n\n\n232 EUTHANASY. \n\nabove, it was as though there were descending \ninto my soul an exceeding weight of glory. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSome seeds of glory fell into your soul then, \nno doubt. For the invisible things of God are to \nbe understood from the things that are made. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd there is an enjoyment of heaven, for \nwhich our joy in nature is a preparation. And \nthere is a love of the beautiful arts, which a man \nwill be the better for, hereafter. Beauty is of \nGod, as much as love is, or truth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt must be ; and the earth and the skies are the \nschool in which for us to learn it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI shall die without having looked on the Med- \niterranean in the Bay of Naples, and without hav- \ning known the magic effect of a Milanese atmos- \nphere. I have not seen the valley of Chamouni, \nin the Alps, nor had a look from the Pyrenees. \nThe gloom, and the grandeur, and the worship of \nAmerican forests have not been felt by me ; nor \nhave I ever rejoiced in the flowers, and the luxu- \nriance, and the deep green of the West Indies. \nI have never heard Niagara roar, nor, at sight of \nthe Mississippi, thought of God, and been de- \nvoutly glad, as I should have been if I had ever \nseen it ; for the sight of any great power in nature \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 233 \n\nis to me like God\'s felt presence ; and during \nthunder and lightning, I cannot so well pray as \nsing hymns. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe powers of nature are the almightiness of \nGod ; and so they are what can be triumphed in. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI have never seen the Southern Cross, nor felt \nthe beauty and the mystery of the Northern \nLights. These things I shall die without having \nknown. There are picture-galleries, in the neigh- \nbourhood of which I should like to have lived \na little while. There are books of engravings \nthat I wish I could have owned years ago. And \nAthens and Rome I wish I had had opportunities \nof visiting. But I shall die, my soul not enriched \nby the greater marvels of the world, and poor \nin beauty. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNot poor, though not as rich as it might have \nbeen. And sometimes, Oliver, I think, under \nother circumstances, the world might have been \nthe better for you. Such things as you have been \nspeaking of are to be seen for money. Now, as I \nknow myself, one pecuniary prospect you declin- \ned, on account of your scruples of conscience. \nAnd you were right in doing so, feeling as you \ndo. There are grand and lovely sights in the \nworld, and some of them you might have had the \n\n\n\n234 ET7THANASY. \n\nmeans to visit, if you had not been quite so scru- \npulous. You might have seen more than you \nhave seen ; but, Oliver, I cannot think that your \nsense of beauty will prove to be the weaker for \nsuch actions as have strengthened your conscience. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere is in the world fearful wonder, that we \nhave never thrilled to ; but before us, there is the \ngreat mystery of death, which we shall not miss \nof. Then what is beauty in nature ? It is God ; \nso that it is what we shall feel more sublimely \nhereafter, than we could anywhere at present. \nThe greatest loveliness of this earth we may never \nsee ; for we are here so short a time, and we are \nso restrained by circumstances ; but the beauty \nof the everlasting and ever brightening heavens, \nwe are sure not to fail of. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWe trust to see it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd we shall not only see it, but feel it, and \nenjoy it. That we certainly shall do, though in \nthis world we may not have been much refined \nby the study of art, or by travel ; for he who is \nsensible to the beauty of a moral life wants little \ntowards loving well and wisely all beauty else. \nIn the neighbouring town there are many saints, \nin whom taste has never been cultivated, because \nnecessity has kept them laboring at one spot, as \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 235 \n\nthough in chains, and poverty has shut them out \nfrom the doors of many opportunities. While \namong them there is one, perhaps, with an eye \nlike Raphael\'s, and another with feeling like what \nTurner has ; and there is another, perhaps, whose \nmind would be like Bryant\'s, only there are no \nwoods in which for the man to strengthen his \nsoul. But now, in these laboring saints, will God \nlet the feeling of beauty become extinct ? No, \nnever. Nor is there any chance of its dying out \nin them, because they feel the beauty of holiness. \nBeauty is manifold in form, but in spirit it is one ; \nit is one and the same in poetry, music, art, na- \nture, and character. Out of primitive rudeness, \nhe who has fashioned a soul after the Christian \nmodel is an artist, not for one age of flattery, nor \nmany years of wonder, nor for time at all, but for \neternity. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nAnd so in that way, and often, many that are \nfirst will be last, and the last be first. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThere are rich owners of statues and pictures, \nand who besides can talk about them critically ; \nyet they have less of the eternal essence and soul \nof beauty in them than there is in some herdsman \non their grounds. Pictures will perish, and the \nscience of them ; so alas for him who does not \nfeel most the beauty of the human soul ! \n\n\n\n236 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is all over now, Oliver ; and I have you \nhere ; and we are so happy together ! And now \nyou are getting well ; and you will be well, I hope, \nin a few months, though perhaps not very strong ; \nand so now we can think of the past, and talk \nabout it. It does seem to me such a pity, such \na misfortune for society, I might say, that you \nshould ever have been in want of any means for \nstudy, or for self-improvement in any way ! O \nOliver ! for a man like you, it must have been \nvery, very sajd. Now it is all past, and there is \nno help for it ; but we can believe that it was not \nall evil ; cannot we, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. Three years ago I was mournful \nwith the thought of mine being a wasted life, \xe2\x80\x94 of \nno use either to myself or others. Not covet- \nously, but I did long for a little of that money \nwhich so many waste on luxuries, to their own \nhurt ; for with that I could have got books to \nreadj and matter to think about. I tried to bor- \nrow books from two or three persons ; but I could \nnot get any lent me, which made me wretched. \nAnd many mournful things I said to myself. I \nsaid, I am in this world along with the works of \ngreat, old writers, and I cannot have them to \nread ; \xe2\x80\x94 I am going away beyond the stars soon, \nand I shall know nothing of what truth is new in \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 237 \n\nthis earth ; \xe2\x80\x94 books for refinement and instruction \nare lying useless in libraries and on booksellers\' \nshelves, while my soul is wanting them for her \ngood ; \xe2\x80\x94 the world about .me is full of knowledge, \nand I, in my innermost self, am perishing for lack \nof it ; \xe2\x80\x94 I am made for wisdom, I am anxious for \nit, I am called upon to get it, both by God and \nChrist, and yet I am unable to be learning; \xe2\x80\x94 \nO, the end of my life, and the great purpose of \nthe world, is spiritual good ! and I cannot get \nany ; and I am as though I were made in vain. \nSo I thought at times ; and sometimes my grief \nwas great, \xe2\x80\x94 very bitter, \xe2\x80\x94 too great to be wept. \nI said to myself, that the world was not right, \nsome persons being far too rich for their good, \nand others too poor for it. And then I thought^ \nif it was ill with me, it was worse with some \nothers, for that they did not even wish for knowl- \nedge. Well, now, I said, there is opportunity \nfor my being useful, and for my learning some- \nthing myself. So I persuaded some rude and ig- \nnorant persons to let me teach them ; and my \n"books were what they read to me ; and their \nminds were books, out of which I read to myself. \nAnd in this way I learned what is not to be learn- \ned any other way. And in my teaching, what \nknowledge I made use of was improved for me, \nas iron is when it is made into steel. And from \nexperience I know, that, if a man is loving and \n\n\n\n238 EUTHANASY. \n\nearnest, what feeling he has of beauty is to be \nkept alive in him, and even strengthened, by \nevery soul he knows of, and in the most unlikely \nplaces ; just as the beautiful rose blossoms and \nlives out of black earth. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTell me, dear Oliver, was not that sermon of \nyours written about the time which you have been \nspeaking of ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI thought it was very likely to have been. \nOliver, you have been a very noble \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSometimes, and sometimes very unworthy, pos- \nsessor of what light God has given me to live by. \nFor sometimes I have bitterly wanted to have \nthings as other men have them ; and I have not \nalways been contented with that Christian owner- \nship through which all things are mine, whether \nthings present or things to come. And uncle \n\nMARHA3I. \n\nNay, but Oliver, speak about the feeling of \nbeauty ; say what you were going to say when I \nasked you about the sermon. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle, I have nothing more to say. Only \nI believe, that, for the enjoyment of heavenly \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 239 \n\nbeauty, a Christian spirit is better readiness than \na well-educated eye. There are acts of forgive- \nness that will hereafter prove to have refined a \nman\'s soul more than the ownership of a gallery \nof paintings by Correggio and Raphael. \n\n\n\n240 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII. \n\nSo works the man of just renown \n\nOn men, when centuries hare flown : \n\nFor what a good man would attain, \n\nThe narrow bounds of life restrain ; \n\nAnd this the balm that Genius gives, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMan dies, but after death he lives. \xe2\x80\x94 Goethe. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, Oliver, what books have you been \nreading while I have been away ? \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe Song of the Soul, and a portion of the \nEnnead of Plotinus. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHenry More was a Platonist, as well as Ploti- \nnus ; but More was a Christian, which Plotinus \nwas not. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nThis edition of the Ennead was printed in \n1580 ; and on the title-page Plotinus is de- \nscribed as being easily the Coryphaeus of all \nPlatonists. His style is wonderful ; it is almost \nmagical in its effects ; for it is so very clear. \nThe book is as though it had been written \nwith a diamond ; it is like cut-glass, like a \nvery rich vessel of it, \xe2\x80\x94 so very rich, and beauti- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 241 \n\nful, and labored, that you doubt your senses, and \nyou agree with yourself that it cannot be only a \ndrop of water that is held in so costly a vessel, \nbut some elixir. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat is the character of his argument, Ol- \niver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThis edition of the Ennead was edited by Mar- \nsilius Ficinus, and is dedicated to Lorenzo de\' \nMedici. At the end of the chapter on the im- \nmortality of the soul, the editor asks Lorenzo \nwhether he would not like to have a summary of \nthe long argument ; and then he gives it, and says \nthe soul is immortal ; first, because she is mis- \ntress of her perishing circumstances, and is able \nto resist bodily impulses ; secondly, because she \noften thinks of many things which are distinct \nfrom bodies of all kinds, either because they are \nseparate naturally, or because she herself distin- \nguishes them in that way ; thirdly, because by na- \nture she desires eternal things, and indeed often \nforegoes things temporal in her confidence of \nthose which are eternal ; and fourthly, because \nshe worships the Everlasting God in the persua- \nsion of an unending life. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd how do you like the Song of the Soul ? \n16 \n\n\n\n242 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nuncle ! very much, very much indeed. \nYours is the only copy of it I have ever seen ; \nand I have been delighted with it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is very ruggedly written. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is ; but now and then there are lines \nwhich are more than smooth, and quite musical, \n\xe2\x80\x94 though they are not many ; but I will read \nyou two or three. \n\nMARHAM. \n\n1 would rather you would give me some ac- \ncount of the book, and here and there read me \nsuch passages as you think I may understand. \nOnce or twice, many years ago, I tried to read \nthe book, but I could not. On the title-page it \nis said to be Christiano-Platonical, is not it ? \nWhat year was it printed in ? For sometimes \nfrom the date of a book one can understand the \nspirit of it a little better. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt was in 1647. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd this is 1847. It is singular, is not it ? \nI think that must have been one of Dr. More\'s \nearlier works. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI think it was ; for it was printed at Cambridge, \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 243 \n\nwhich would seem to show that the writer had not \nat that time left the University. Then there is \nthis ; \xe2\x80\x94 the author dedicates the book to his dear \nfather, Alexander More, Esquire, and says that \nhe pleases himself with embalming his name to \nimmortality, who next under God is the author of \nhis life and being. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI like that ; for it is affectionately, and rever- \nently, and simply said. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere is what is affecting in loving words like \nthese, outlasting so long the hand that wrote them \nand the eyes they were meant for. The right \nhand of the philosopher and affectionate son is \ndust, but his ideas are living still : and one is \nwilling to think of this as being in accordance \nwith the immortality of the spirit, and as some \neffect of it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, it is exactly two centuries since Dr. Hen- \nry More published this book, perhaps this very \nmonth, or even day. But what a season it was \nin which for a poet to sing his Song of the Soul ! \nFor it was a time of civil war ; counties, and \ntowns, and many houses, divided against them- \n| selves ; doubts in men\'s minds, and troopers \non the high-roads ; King Charles at Hampton \nCourt, the Parliament in London, and the army \n\n\n\n244 EUTHANASY. \n\nat St. Albans, all three powers being opposed \nto one another. Ay, and 1647 was the year \nin which George Fox got spiritually enlight- \nened. But for one minute, let me look into \nhis Journal. Yes ! At the beginning of the \nyear he says that his troubles continued, and \nthere were many temptations over him ; that \nHe fasted much, walked abroad in solitary places \nmany days, and often took his Bible and sat \nin hollow trees and lonesome places till night \ncame on, and frequently in the night walked about \nmournfully by himself. But before the end of \nthe year he records that he had great openings, \nand that he saw the mountains and the rubbish \nburning up, and the rough, crooked ways and \nplaces made smooth and plain, for the Lord to \ncome into his tabernacle ; that he saw the infinite \nlove of God ; and that he saw, also, that there is \nan ocean of darkness and death, but an infinite \nocean of light and love which flows over the \nocean of darkness. And, O, then, he says, he \nsaw his troubles, trials, and temptations more \nclearly than ever he had done ; for as the light \nappeared, all appeared that is out of the light ; \nthat darkness, death, temptations, the ungodly, \nthe unrighteous, all were manifest and seen in the \nlight. He says soon afterwards, that he was come \nup in the spirit, through the flaming sword, into \nthe Paradise of God ; that he knew nothing but \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 245 \n\npureness, innocency, and righteousness, being re- \nnewed up into the innocency of God by Christ \nJesus ; so that he was come up to the state which \nAdam was in before he fell. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere was great likeness between Fox and \nMore, both in their minds and views. But that \nis a thing which would not have been readily be- \nlieved by George Fox, the despiser of colleges \nand the enemy of steeple-houses. Of this Song \nof the Soul, the first part is a Christiano-Platon- \nical display of life, which I have read, but which \nI cannot easily give an account of. But, O ! in \nthe description of the character of God there is \none line, quaint but endearing, and which is very \ngood : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFather of lights and everlasting glee. \n\nIs not it a happy line, uncle ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, Oliver. But is not it in a passage which \nI can understand ? What is the subject of it ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe Triad of Plato. In the notes to the \npoem, Dr. More says that the third person of this \nTriad is Love ; and that Peter Lombard held \nthat the Holy Ghost is the same. To be influ- \nenced by this Divine Love is for our souls to be \nbaptized with the Holy Spirit ; and this is the \nbaptism which is salvation. Baptism in the name \n\n\n\n246 ETJTHANASY. \n\nof the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit is \nof more consequence than the reading of all the \nlearned and acute tracts about the Trinity ; for \nthat is what might be permitted to the Devil, but \nthe other is the privilege only of the good and \npious man. Baptism of the Christian spirit, \ncoming from the Father and through the Son, is \nthe certainty of salvation. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so I believe. Now you have turned to \nwhat seems another part of the poem. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd it is what pleases me most ; perhaps be- \ncause T understand it best. The immortality of \nthe soul is a truth which is not bright except to \nthe pure in heart. The soul has power rising \nfrom within itself; but is it therefore eternal? \nMan cannot be sure of it, and the more he thinks \nof it, the more he doubts. It is night, and a mis- \nerable man walks in it, for he cannot sleep. An \nangel comes to him and tells him the manner of \nspiritual life. \n\nAnd more for to confirm this mystery, \nShe vanished in my presence into air; \nShe spread herself with the thin, liquid sky. \nBut I thereat fell not into despair \nOf her return, nor wailed her visage fair, \nThat so was gone. For I was waxen strong \nIn this belief, that nothing can impair \nThe inward life, or its hid essence wrong. \nthe prevailing might of a sweet, learned tongue ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 247 \n\nThe soul is not a body, nor a spread form, nor \nany quality of a body ; so it is not subject to the \nlaws of matter, and therefore not to death. Also \nthat the soul is not corporeal, and is not mortal, \nis to be proved from the nature of our rational \npowers, and especially from our being capable of \nreligion. Now are not these two stanzas admira- \nble ? O, they are, very ! \n\nBut true religion, sprung from God above, \nIs like her fountain, full of charity, \nEmbracing all things with a tender love, \nFull of good-will and meek expectancy, \nFull of true justice and sure verity, \nIn heart and voice ; free, large, even infinite ; \nNot wedged in strait particularity, \nBut grasping all in her vast, active spright. \nBright lamp of God! that men would joy in thy pure light ! \n\nCan souls that be thus universalized, \nBegot into the life of God, e\'er die ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is well asked ; and that description of \nwhat religion is is truly Christian. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nCan souls ever die that have been living in God, \nand in some manner like God ? \n\nCan they fly \nInto a nothing ? And hath God an eye \nTo see himself thus wasted and decay \nIn his true members ? Can mortality \nSeize upon that which doth itself display \nAbove the laws of matter or the body\'s sway ? \n\n\n\n248 EUTHANASY. \n\nNow, uncle, excepting in the Bible, a finer thing \nhas never been said than this asking if God could \nbear to see souls perish. O, it is boldly, and \ntenderly, and grandly asked ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA good man Henry More was, we may be \nsure, for it was out of the treasure of a good \nheart that those thoughts came. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAsk the soul whether God is one thing, and \nshe answers that he is not ; or whether he is \nanother thing, and she says that he is not ; or \nwhether he is sometimes in one place and some- \ntimes in another, or always present everywhere, \nand she makes answer at once, that God is omni- \npresent. \n\nSo that it is plain, that some kind of insight \nOf God\'s own being in the soul doth dwell ; \nThough what God is we cannot yet so plainly tell. \n\nBut we Can tell from this what we ourselves are. \nWe are souls. For it is not with our hands, nor \nwith any of our bodily senses, that we feel God ; \nnor \n\nCan aught born of this carcass be so free, \nAs to grasp all things in large sympathy. \n\nReckon up all the properties of the human body, \nand they will not account for all the feelings \nthat we have. There is, then, a soul in man ; \xe2\x80\xa2 \nand she \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 249 \n\nForesees her own condition. She relates \nThe all-comprehension of eternity ; \nComplains she is thirsty, in all estates ; \nThat all she sees or has don\'t satisfy \nHerhungry self, nor fill her vast capacity. \n\nThis alone might persuade us of our being des- \ntined to a higher life. Only what we most long \nfor we are so slow to believe ! We can never be \nsure enough about it ; if we are well convinced \nof it, then we want to be more strongly convinced ; \nand if ourselves we are certain, then we want to \nhave the mouths of all doubts stopped, both in \nmen and books. We may believe ourselves im- \nmortal, from the nature of the connection between \nthe soul and the body. The soul was not made \nfor the body, but the body for the soul ; and \n\nwhen this work shall fade, \nThe soul dismisseth it as an old thought. \n\nThen reflect on the difference there is between \n\nthe influences which act upon the soul ; for some \n\nof them are from this outward world, and others \n\nare from the spiritual world. \n\nWhen we are clothed with this outward world, \nFeel the soft air, behold the glorious sun, \nAll this we have from meat, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nand from bodily feelings that are kept alive by \nfood. But our mouths open themselves through \nappetites created in us, which appetites are the \nnatural man. That is first which is natural ; but \nafterward there is that which is spiritual ; for \n\n\n\n250 ETTTHANASY. \n\nthere are created in us spiritual capabilities. And \nwhat earth and sky are to our bodies, the world of \nspirit is to our souls. And so we may know our- \nselves to be closely related to the everlasting ; for \n\nIn the higher world there is such communion. \n\nChrist is the sun, that, by his cheering might, \n\nAwakes our higher rays to join with his pure light. \n\nAnd when he hath that life elicited, \nHe gives his own dear body, and his blood, \nTo drink and eat. Thus daily we are fed \nUnto eternal life. \n\nAnd now comes a long proof of the earth\'s re- \nvolving round the sun. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut what can be the purpose of that, in an ar- \ngument on the immortality of the soul ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIf the strength of outward impressions is to be \n\ncorrected and conquered by our right reason, then \n\nwe see \nThat we have proper, independent might, \nIn our own mind, behold our own idea, \n"Which needs must prove the soul\'s sure immortality. \n\nAnd now against the fear of death, the conscious- \nness of justice is of great help ; for \n\nStrange strength resideth in the soul that \'s just. \nThen man may expect a happy immortality from \nthe character of his Maker. For it is blasphem- \ning the name of God to say that he does, or can \ndo, any thing else than love us human creatures of \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 251 \n\nhis. For an instance, suppose it possible that our \nCreator does not care for us, and lets our souls be \nat the mercy of enemies, and then feel the con- \nsequences. Now are not these lines very touch- \ning ? They are not to be believed for a minute, \nand yet they might almost make one weep. God ! \nGod, my Maker ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI feel that he is loved \nOf my dear soul, and know that I have borne \nMuch for his sake ; yet is it not hence proved \nThat I shall live. Though I do sigh and mourn \nTo find his face, his creature\'s wish he \'11 slight and scorn. \nWhen I breathe out my utmost vital breath, \nAnd my dear spirit to my God commend, \n\nI shall find that God does not care for me at all ; \n\nI shall be wretched, and without help, and be the \n\nvictim of enemies ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThough I in heart\'s simplicity expected \nA better doom, since I my steps did bend \nToward the will of God. and had detected \nStrong hope of lasting life ; but now I am rejected. \n\nThat a good man should die a death like this is \nwhat cannot be. And then we must believe that \nGod is good, or there can be no faith in any \nthing. So that predestination and its kindred \ndoctrines are not even to be mentioned, nor \nsuch odd thoughts, that thus pervert \nThe laws of God, and rashly do assert \nThat will rules God, but good rules not God\'s will. \n\nAnd then, in reference to the doctrine that some \nmen are elected to perdition, he says, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n252 ETJTHANASY. \n\nI \n\nhorrid blasphemy! \n\nThat heaven\'s unblemished btauty thus dost stain ! \nThere is nothing God possibly can wish, but the \ngood of his creatures. There is nothing in us he \ncan intend, but happiness ; for there is nothing \nGod can want for himself, because his own na- \nture is sufficient for him, being infinitely full and \nglad and excellent. In order to be saved, a man \nhas only to be willing, has only to be sincere and \nwithout hypocrisy, has only not to be excusing \nhis sins to his conscience, and extenuating them \nto his friends. For God, with his spirit, is \neverywhere, and always and anxiously he is try- \ning to win \n\nUnto himself such as be simply true, \nAnd with malignant pride resist not him ; \nBut strive to do what he for right doth shew ; \nSo still a greater light he brings into their view. \n\nGod is the life of all lives, and the strength of all \n\nthings ; and so he is to be firmly trusted in. But \n\nholy trust is not a thing to be argued step by \n\nstep ; for what it is, words \n\nCannot declare, nor its strange virtue show. \nThat \'s it holds up the soul in all her woe, \nThat death, nor hell, nor any change, doth fray. \nWho walks in light knows whither he doth go. \nOur God is light ; we, children of the day. \nGod is our strength and hope : what can us, then, dismay 1 \n\nMARHAM. \nThat is true and to be trusted. Yes, \xe2\x80\x94 \nGod is our strength and hope : what can us, then, dismay ? \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 253 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHere are ingenious answers to such questions \nas why Adam was made with such a loose will as \nto have forfeited Paradise so foolishly ; if souls \ncan exist of themselves, why they should be in- \nclosed in wretched bodies ; why the world was \nnot made larger than it is, and much sooner than \nit was. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThese are the greater secrets of the Divine \ncounsel. Christ never spoke of them. And \nwith these infinite questions, we finite creatures \nare worse than water-flies thinking to struggle up \nthe falls of Niagara. But you are turning over \nthe pages very fast, Oliver. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nFrom old age, it might be thought that the \n\nspirit might very likely live without the body. \n\nFor often, while the body weakens, the soul \nstrengthens. \n\nMild, gentle, quick, large, subtile, serene, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThese be her properties ; which do increase, \n\nthough the body may be losing strength. In old \nage, a man may not have passion set through his \nsoul like a whirlwind, nor like a breeze ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut the will doth flower \nAnd fairly spread ; near to our last decease, \nEmbraceth good with much more life and power, \nThan ever she could do in her fresh, vernal hour. \n\n\n\n254 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nThis is said not without some beauty, as well as \ntruth ; is not it, uncle ? We are sure of a future \nlife. But of what kind will that life be ? It will \nbe like what we are ourselves. At death, the \nsouls of men are drawn, through their feelings, into \ntheir right places, quite naturally and exactly ; for \n\nGod, heaven, this middle world, deep glimmering hell, \n"With all the lives and shapes that there remain, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe forms of all in human souls do dwell. \nShe likewise all proportions doth contain ; \nWhich fits her for all spirits. \n\nAnd so, like a bad man drawn into bad company \n\nin an evening, the soul that is bad will in the \n\nfuture world be drawn into the outer darkness. \n\nBut heaven will draw into itself what souls are \n\ngood ; and also these souls will be drawn into \n\nplaces fittest for them ; and those that have been \n\nholiest will be drawn nighest to God. \n\nWhat now remains, but, since we are so sure \nOf endless life, that to true piety \nWe bend our minds, and make our conscience pure, \nLest living night in bitter darkness us immure 1 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is day with us yet ; it is what we can call \nto-day ; and while we can call it so, we will work. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhile in the body, if the soul were to keep \nher attention \n\nfast fixed on high, \nIn midst of death \'t were no more fear or pain, \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 255 \n\nThan \'t was unto Elias to let fly \nHis useless mantle to that Hebrew swain, \nWhile he rode up to heaven in a bright, fiery wain. \n\nThat is a noble image, is not it ? It makes me \nfeel as though this garment of flesh might be slip- \nped at the last easily, and like a cloak. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThank you, Oliver. Your account of the \nbook has pleased me, and I hope it may do me \nsome good; \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAt the end of it, the book states its purpose to \nbe to make the readers of it think two things ; \none of which is, that every holy soul hereafter \nshall enjoy a never-fading felicity in the invisible \nand eternal heaven, the intellectual world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut what else is the book to prove ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat this world is a commixture of light and \ndarkness ; but that God will through his power \nrescue those souls that are faithful in their trial, \nand that prefer the light before the dark, deliver- \ning them from living death and hell by that strong \narm of their salvation, Jesus Christ. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is a good book. I have long wished to \nknow what was in it ; I might have read it for \nmyself, and I ought to have done so, perhaps ; \n\n\n\n256 EUTHANASY. \n\nbut I was frightened at the Platonic words in it, \nand at its being in not very good verse. But by \nyour help, Oliver, I like the book. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nAnd by that liking, you may know yourself to \nbe a living soul, and so a soul to live for ever. \nThroughout the book there is the spirit of im- \nmortality, which you feel, and that is because you \nare yourself immortal ; for \n\nOnly the spirit can the spirit own ; \njust as the light can only be seen by light. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat one line is a thing worth thinking of. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo it is ; and by itself it would make us fel- \nlow-debtors with Abraham Cowley. For you \nand I, uncle, \xe2\x80\x94 we feel what the poet would \nseem to have felt at a time of life when he knew \nhow much he had been bettered by the philoso- \npher ; and so we will say that we have learned \nthings of infinite advantage from the admirable \nDr. Henry More, of Christ\'s College, who is to \nbe looked upon as one of those bright stars which \nGod permitted to shine on a darkened age, \xe2\x80\x94 \nstars whose lustre be has never suffered to be \nentirely wanting. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI do not know why, but always I have had \nsome affection for the name of Henry More. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 257 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, it is because you are the better for him. \nAnd you are not one of the multitude who are \nunwilling to return, or even acknowledge, any \ngood which is done them without their asking. \nSome time since, when we were reading the Di- \nvine Dialogues, you said you should like to know \nwhere Henry More was buried, so as to have his \ntomb cared for. But if he had been living, and \nbeen in want of bread, you would not have been \nthe friend to have only intended him a stone after \nhis death. In the latter part of his life, high pre- \nferment in the Church was offered him, but I \nsuppose his conscience hindered his acceptance of \nit. However, he always lived easily, though, as \nit would appear from his own words, not quite as \nprosperously as he might have done, if he had \nnot been the earnest, pure thinker that he was. \nBut who asked him to philosophize in religion, \ninstead of making money for himself, or taking \nhis pleasure ? Who asked him to write on the \ngrounds of faith in religion, and on the mystery of \ngodliness ? The Song of the Soul, \xe2\x80\x94 who ask- \ned it from him ? It might be answered, that the \nprophets became such without any man\'s asking \nthem ; though, after having been stoned, they were \ncommonly reverenced for having been inspired. \nHere are these books about us for which the \nworld is the wiser, and through the writing of \n17 \n\n\n\n258 EUTHANASY. \n\nwhich men are not the Calmucks, and the Hot- \ntentots, and the Cossacks, they would otherwise \nhave been ; and yet in many a one there is the \nquestion, as to why he should be grateful. Who \nasks authors to write ? To this worldly question \none of them says, that he has no share in the \nchoice of his lot as a thinker, except his readiness \nto be an organ for God to work with among men ; \nand another makes such a helpless, yet such a \ntouching answer, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis is the thing that I was horn to do ; \nThis is my scene ; this part must I fulfil. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIf it is not for fame, nor money, nor for self- \ninterest in any other way, that a man of genius \nwrites, then it must be because he is constrained \nto the work from within himself, and in a manner \nthat I can well believe to be quite strange and in- \ncredible to a selfish man. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThese great thinkers, then, we will love like \nbrethren of ours ; for so they are ; \xe2\x80\x94 not after the \nflesh, indeed, but they are our kindred after the j \nspirit, and through God. And by our loving : \nthem, they are to be understood the better, and \nthey make us very much the better. Because \nit is only from the height of our nature that we \ncan love those of a high nature. And we our- \\ \nselves grow gentle, by loving a writer of gentle \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 259 \n\nthoughts. And there are devout men, the affec- \ntionate remembrance of whose names makes the \nsoul ready for prayer. So God be blessed for \nthe great men we know of ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd make us be like them in all good respects ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA truth cannot be rightly felt without love, \xe2\x80\x94 \nwithout the author of it being to us a brother to \nbe proud of. The foolish homage to great men \nthat the multitude sometimes show comes of right- \nful impulses in them, \xe2\x80\x94 of a way of feeling which \nGod has made in them for their good ; and that \nwill be shown more becomingly, and lovingly, \nand wisely, in wiser ages. A man makes himself \n; closely akin to excellence, does himself grow ex- \ni cellent, by making a noble thinker, or a hero, or a \n\xe2\x80\xa2 saint, be his brother if he can. This is a great \ntruth ; and it is what reaches farther and higher \nthan would often be believed. For even if there \n9 is a mere sufferer from pain, or for righteousness\' \nJ sake, and there is sympathy felt for him, then \n9, there are other men who are the better for him, \nand with his stripes who are healed. What I \nmean is this, uncle, \xe2\x80\x94 and it is what my soul feels, \ns like a truth of God, \xe2\x80\x94 that through fellow-feeling \nwith them that are great in soul there is to be \ncaught a temper, a frame of mind, a spirit, just \nready to be great, and that will open into great- \nness at once in the world to come. \n\n\n\n260 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, what you have said \xe2\x80\x94 I mean \xe2\x80\x94 I \nhave a strange feeling of its being right ; but how, \nI do not know. But it is a strange power which \nwe men have over one another. Oliver, my \nmind is growing more like yours. I am sure it \nis. It is as though \xe2\x80\x94 however, what you have \nbeen saying is true \xe2\x80\x94 yes ! it is reasonable, quite. \nMen may like reading the New Testament as \nwell as any other book ; and may be fond of the \nexcitement of religion ; but they are saved through \nour Lord Jesus Christ only by their loving him. \nAnd from the Scriptures it would appear that in \nApostolic times by some men the truth was re- \nceived with pleasure, yet not in love, and so not \nunto salvation. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nHereafter the multitudes of souls will show like \ncities that have been ruled over by the good and \nfaithful men of ten talents and of five. And it \nwill be seen how our minds are profiting now \nunder the rulers of the world of thought \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd not ungratefully, I hope, Oliver. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNo soul can profit much while it is ungrateful ; \nfor while it is so, it can be the better neither for \na friend to talk with, nor for a poet to feel with, \nnor for a philosopher to think with, nor even for \n\n\n\n: \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 261 \n\nthat first-born of every creature whom men are \nsaved by. Praise to the men, then, for whose \nwritings I am the better ! I have in me thoughts \nof their thinking, and they have from me dear \nlove of mine ; and so we are members one of \nanother, \xe2\x80\x94 yes, we are, though we have never \nseen one another. And so we are members of \nthe kingdom of heaven, and none the less surely \nfor our never having seen it. But it is to be felt \nby us, of ourselves, and, O, so plainly and so \nhappily by the help of some few greater souls \nfrom amongst us ! Blessings on them, whether in \nthis world or the next ! Blessings on them from \nthe Highest ! \n\n\n\n262 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV. \n\nWe are what suns, and winds, and waters make us. \nThe mountains are our sponsors, and the rills \nFashion and win their nursling with their smiles. \n\nW. S. Landob. \n\nThe soul of man is larger than the sky, \nDeeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark \nOf the unfathomed centre. Like that ark, \nWhich in its sacred hold uplifted high, \nO\'er the drowned hills, the human family, \nAnd stock reserved of every living kind, \nSo in the compass of the single mind \nThe seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, \nThat make all worlds. \xe2\x80\x94 Hartley Coleridge. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nO this summer day ! It is a great calm in \nnature. There is not a bird in the air that I can \nsee. Listen ! How still it is ! There is noth- \ning to be heard but the two or three flies in the \nroom here. So quiet, yet so earnest, life feels to \nme just now. There is such sublimity in a day \nlike this. To me the stillness of it is like the \npeace of God. I feel as though brooded over \nby almightiness. And the bright light is God\'s \npresence about me, looking my spirit through and \nthrough. \n\nHABEAS. \n\nTo me sometimes a calm like this feels awful \nalmost, \xe2\x80\x94 and like a lull in a storm. The world \nis so vast, that \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 263 \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe universe is great, but it is greatness of my \nown that I see in it ; it is glorious, but it is glory \nof my own that it is bright with ; it is wisdom in \nmotion, but it is knowledge of mine which it \nmoves to ; for the mind that is in it all I am made \nwith, and the Maker of it is my Father. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is better to speak of the grandeur of the \nsoul in Scriptural language ; for so it sounds less \npresumptuous, and perhaps is so. We men are \nmade in the image of God. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd so more nobly than the universe. For \nthere must be a something of infinity in what is \na likeness of the infinite. Yes, man\'s is a des- \ntiny more lasting than that of suns and planets. \nNay, I do not doubt but that, in the eye of an \nangel rejoicing over these lower treasures of God, \nthere are some souls that already are counted be- \nfore the earth and the sun. My nature, \xe2\x80\x94 it is \nnot only what I am, but what I may be. Ay, \nwhat I may be ! To the greatness of that, this \nworld is little ; Alps and Andes though it be, \nMediterranean and Atlantic, American woods and \nArctic snows. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nPerhaps so, Oliver. But something else is true. \nYou may see thousands of other worlds at night, \n\n\n\n264 EUTHANASY. \n\nbut you cannot visit one. Earth owns you, and \nholds you to her ; and she scorches you by turn- \ning you to the sun, and freezes you by letting her \nnorth wind against you. With her west wind you \nare gladdened, and with her east wind you are \nwithered, and with her speed you are carried cap- \ntive over the fields of space. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTrue ; but then the earth does not know her- \nself, but I know her ; her own course she does \nnot know, but I know it ; and her swiftness in it \nshe does not know, but I know it, to a yard and a \nmoment. And so I am the earth\'s better. Yes, \nand what are laws over her are service for me ; \nand the expansiveness of water is my swiftness. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou have said well and ingeniously, and, Oli- \nver, much to my pleasure ; for the soul is greater \nthan the earth. And I do believe that there are \neyes, in which even the first thought of a child is \nso bright as to eclipse the sun and moon. But \nthese are feelings that are perhaps unsafe for us, \nexcept upon our knees, and with our faces in our \nhands. \n\nAUBIN, \n\nAnd it is from out of the depth of our humility \nthat the height of our destiny looks grandest. \nFor let me truly feel that in myself I am nothing, \nand at once, through every inlet of my soul, God \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 265 \n\ncomes in and is every thing in me. Weak, very- \nweak, I am, and I would not be otherwise, if only \nI can keep looking towards righteousness ; \xe2\x80\x94 this \nis what I think sometimes ; and as soon as I feel \nthis, the almightiness of God pours through my \nspirit like a stream, and I am free, and I am joy- \nful, and I can do all things through Him that \nstrengthened! me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, and what God is in the earth and the sea, \nthat and more than that he is in the soul, \xe2\x80\x94 in \nthe humble soul. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nGod is the centre of all truth, and so it is to \nbe most largely seen from nighest him. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTo moral and to religious worth, humility is an \nessential, and it is quite needful for the best uses \nof the intellect. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is, and many an instance would show it ; \nbut they are not necessary to tell of. If the soul \nhas God within it, then there is in it an affinity \nwith all truth in science, philosophy, art, and re- \nligion. God\'s I am, \xe2\x80\x94 God\'s everlastingly, \xe2\x80\x94 \nGod\'s to grow for ever. There will grow in me \nthe whole wisdom in which this world is made ; \nand the workings of my mind will be as grand as \nstarry movements some time. \n\n\n\n266 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, dear Oliver, your words are so high ! \nI do not mean irreverent ; but they sound as \nthough they could not be used in prayer, and \nour thoughts should not be too proud for that, if \nwe can help it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, there have been worshippers whose na- \nture it was to adore God from the tops of lofty \ntowers. It was on the highest hill in Jerusalem \nthe temple was built. It was in a mountain that \nMoses talked with God. And it was up into \na mountain Jesus Christ went to pray, himself \nalone, one greater time. And it is from the \nloftier of my contemplations that God feels most \nadorable. And it is in the thought of what he \nwill make me, that I am most awed by what he \nis himself, and must be. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is a right feeling, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAn archangel has perhaps a telescopic eye, \nthat makes a familiar thing of a field like our so- \nlar system ; he knows the plan of the ages in \nmany a world ; he feels principalities and powers \nlike dust beneath him ; yet in the magnitude of \nhis mind God is but magnified the more : just as \nwe mortals, going up into a mountain, see the \nmore plainly that it is not on the horizon of the \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 267 \n\nearth that the dome of the firmament rests, as \nchildren think. From his exaltation, the archan- \ngel does but abase himself the more ; and he \nclimbs the higher, but to look the wider, and to \ncry the more awfully, \xe2\x80\x94 O the depth of the rich- \nes both of the wisdom and knowledge of God ! \nAnd so again he rises still higher ; for it is not \nin this world only that he who abases himself is \nexalted. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is so, and only so, that weakness is made \nstrong in the world of spirit. O, it is a happy \nthing to feel ourselves helpless and naught, for \nthen the presence of God is felt to wrap us about \nso lovingly ! Everlasting, infinite, almighty, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthese are words that strengthen us with speaking \nthem. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAll in all, God is the soul of our souls, and \nthe life of nature. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOf all, and through all, and in us all, and the \ngiver of every good and perfect gift. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes. God is in the frost, and when the sav- \nage is starved into a habit of forethought, it is a \nlesson from the Father of spirits which he has \nhad. Astronomy is acquaintance with the laws \nof the stars, and those laws are the wisdom and \n\n\n\n268 ETJTHANASY. \n\nthe almightiness of God ; so that knowledge of \nthem is fellowship with God, in some sense. \nAnd the same is true of all natural philosophy ; \nfor it is the philosophy of nature which is wisdom \nof God in practice ; and so, in attaining the knowl- \nedge of it, they are truths from God we get. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut a very poor knowledge of God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is, by itself. But I do not say it is \nknowledge of God, so much as knowledge from \nhim. The soul, or rather knowledge, is quick- \nened within us by heat and cold, day and night, \nand the necessities of life. It is because the \nworld is what it is, that we are what we are. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMentally. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYes, and in some moral respects our souls are \nmade by the world about us. There is a likeness \nbetween some appearances in nature and moods \nof our minds. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI do not understand you, quite. No doubt, we \ndo not always feel the same with nature. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIn the dark, every thing is shut out from us \nbut the omnipresent ; and so in darkness the \nGodhead wraps us round like a felt presence. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\nSometimes a clear night is just what calms me ; \nand while I am walking in it, high truths rise \nupon my soul, like stars above the horizon. And \nmoonlight among the trees makes one readier to \nfeel the beauty of holiness. In nature, one view \ncalms the soul, another purifies it, and another \nsublimes it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNight and morning, and sunset, snowy winter, \nand leafy summer, vary the look of nature, no \ndoubt ; but it is possible, in the sight of the same \nscene, and at the same time, for one man to feel \none way, and another another ; for one looker \nto be solemnized, and another to be made more \nhopeful. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nJust as, by looking on the blessed face of Christ, \na happy person would rejoice more purely, and a \ntearful one sorrow more holily, and a sinner feel \nremorseful, and a righteous man drink righteous- \nness in. And so it is with nature ; and what it \nmakes in us is most blessedly felt by the soul, \nwhich is a child of God, through Christ. O, out \nin the country, sometimes, my soul feels wrapped, \nas though in the arms of the Great Father. It is \nas though the wind whispered me divine messa- \nges ; and it is as though divine meaning broke \nupon me from out of the clouds, and the hill- \nsides, and from among the stars. And I know \n\n\n\n270 ETJTHANASY. \n\nthat I am growing and am destined to grow into \nthe spirit of it all, \xe2\x80\x94 into the brightness of the \nsun, and the majesty of night, \xe2\x80\x94 into the purity of \nwinter, and the contentment of summer. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat you speak of, I feel only sometimes, \nand not every day. Perhaps this is through \nsome fault in me. But they are holy recollec- \ntions which I have, of having felt as you describe. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHoly recollections, \xe2\x80\x94 so they are. And most \ntrustworthy is what we feel at such times ; for the \nsoul is then in her purer, and therefore truer \nmoods. In summer and winter, day and night, \nseed-time and harvest, and in the whole order \nof nature, so perfect, it is as though a persuasive \nvoice were always saying, " Trust me." In corn- \nfields and orchards, it is as though, from among \nthe yellow corn and out of the tree-tops, it were \nsaid to thoughtful listeners, " O, taste and see \nthat the Lord is good ! " And the westerly wind \nis like a soft whisper from out of the infinite, say- \ning, " God is love ; hope thou in him." Then, \nin the hearing of all these voices, rises in \'my soul \nthe sweet persuasion, "Dwell thou here with an \nunderstanding heart, and die thou shalt with a tri- \numphant one." Yes, faith is the easier for the \nway that nature makes us feel. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFrom what you have said, it would seem so. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 271 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMany of the moods of our souls are the deeper \nfor the effect on us of the world outside us. \nSpiritual feelings have the same words to describe \nthem as many qualities of outward nature have, \n\xe2\x80\x94 pure, open, high, bright, infinite, dark, nar- \nrow, gentle, rapid, harmonious, misty, clouded, \nbeautiful. In the soul, there is a midnight and a \nmid-day ; and there is a spring, there is a sum- \nmer, an autumn, and there is a winter. Some- \ntimes in the soul there are what are like tempests. \nAnd there are seasons in which, in the mind, \nthought flashes like lightning. I think there are \nsights in the sky, and states of the air, and scenes \namong trees, and from hill- tops, which have af- \nfected my way of feeling about life, and my fel- \nlow-men, and the future. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, Oliver, how can that be ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOne season there had been a long, hard frost, \nwith an easterly wind, making it be bitterly cold ; \nbut one morning there came such a warm breeze \nfrom the south as was delightful to breathe. I \nwalked up and down the lane I lived in, and I \ndrew long, deep breaths. I felt like a prisoner \njust free. I was as one freshly escaped from \nevil. I was cheerful, hopeful, and as though the \nwhole world had brightened about me. Now this \n\n\n\n272 EUTHANASY. \n\nwas what I must often have felt after frosts, and \nafter long rain. And I remember thinking it was \na way of feeling which made it readier for me to \nbelieve in deliverance from misfortune. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, Oliver, after cold, wet weather, on a \nwarm, clear day, I have myself sometimes felt as \nthough all hardships and sorrows were easily to \nbe lived through ; but certainly I never thought a \nbright day was intended to make us think so. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNature about us is a companionship, which our \nsouls feel, and were meant to feel ; for there is \nto be caught from it a tone so peculiar, as to be \nintentional. Cheerful is what nature would make \nus, \xe2\x80\x94 not merry, nor melancholy. Now it is in \ncheerfulness that our moral faculties are freest, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthat we most readily trust, and are kind, and con- \ntrol ourselves. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat you say is true, I think ; for as far as I \ncan remember, there are only a very few sights or \nsounds in nature that are sad, or ludicrous, or \nwildly gay, \xe2\x80\x94 only just enough to make it remark- \nable that the rest are so uniformly cheerful. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBirds do not sing frolicsome tunes, though they \ndo sing happily ; the song of the lark is not jovial, \nand the nightingale is not a merry songster. The \n\n\n\nEIJTHANASY. 273 \n\nbleat of the sheep and the low of the ox are not \nsad, nor yet mirthful, but serious. Winds, brooks, \nand rivers do not mourn ; and if in their sound \nthere is any melancholy, it is only in Milton\'s \nsense of the word. The tone of nature is what \nit is, for us sons of God to learn, and for us to be \ncheerful from it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd in nature, what things are not to be called \ncheerful have, some of them, a moral effect on \nus ; and some of them make us laugh in a way \nthat we are the better for. Yes, there is much in \nus which there would not have been, but for birds, \nand animals, and winds, and trees. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nLast year\'s birds are dead, many of them ; but \nmany of their songs are lasting on in men who \nheard them. In my spirit, there are some tones \nwhich are the fuller for the birds I have heard \nsing, \xe2\x80\x94 the lark in a morning in spring, the night- \ningale on a summer\'s evening, the thrush against \na storm, and the robin when the rain was over. In \nmy mind, there is what has come of my being awed \nby thunderstorms, of hearing the wind in the woods, \nof feeling the air cool on an August evening, and of \nsitting on the sea-shore at the flow of the tide. \n\n% MARHAM. \n\nYes, and of sitting still for an hour, on a day \nso hush as this, and feeling the peace of it. \n\n18 \n\n\n\n274 EtJTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIf I were none the better for the world I live \nin, I might fear leaving it, as being useless ; but \nnow I shall leave it for what will better my soul \nstill more. My faith is the more cheerful for \nwhat nature makes me feel ; and nature is God \nabout me ; so that the cheerfulness of my faith is \npartly God\'s causing, \xe2\x80\x94 is what I am to be easy \nin, and to be sure that God likes. \n\nMARHA3I. \n\nNot every one, \xe2\x80\x94 and perhaps they are not \nmany who hear the voices of the four seasons, \nand know what God means us to understand by \nhis so clothing the grass of the field, \xe2\x80\x94 but every \none that has ears to hear, can hear and under- \nstand those blessed words of Christ, \xe2\x80\x94 " Because \nI live, ye shall live also." But I think you said, \nthat what nature means is rightly felt only by \nthose that are spiritual, \xe2\x80\x94 that it is they who \nknow best what the woods talk, and what cheer- \nfulness the birds sing. Always the earth is the \nsame, but it may look more divine to us Chris- \ntians than it did to the heathen ; and perhaps the \npurer men become in heart, the more plainly they \nwill see God in things about them. But always, \nand so gloriously, there will be the light of the \nknowledge of God in the face .of Jesus Christ. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd that light shines through death, and shows \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 275 \n\nit to be a phantom ; and it shines into the grave, \nand shows there is no victory in it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, if I could only keep as strong in the faith \nas I am now ! and then I should die happily. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIf Jesus Christ had all power over my soul, \nand were present with me, and were to lay his \nhand upon me, I should say, "Lord, do with me \nwhat thou wilt." And if the horrors of death \ncompassed me about, and frightful appearances \nof judgment took shape before my eyes, and if \neverlasting death gaped against me, I should not \nfear if I could look into the face of Christ ; for \nmy soul would be calmed, and I should say, \n" What thou wilt, Lord, \xe2\x80\x94 whether it be life or \ndeath, \xe2\x80\x94 let it be for me what thou wilt, \xe2\x80\x94 O, \nwhat thou wilt ! " And shall I not feel this, and \nmore than this, when I do come to die ? For the \nFather will be with me. And Jesus said that we \nought to be glad of his having himself gone away, \nbecause it was to the Father. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nChrist in the flesh reappears no more among \nus. And it is well, it is surely well ; but to our \nsouls, he is with us to the end of the world. \nAnd the thought of him ought to be enough for \nus, and a happy companionship to die in. Still, \nI do not wonder at Catholic attempts to feel \n\n\n\n276 EUTHANASY. \n\nChrist in the Mass, and in the sight of paintings \nof hi in. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWell, I do wonder at it, because Christ is to \nbe felt so blessedly within us, after doing his \nwords. And then what Christ was in the flesh, \nGod is in nature. And in the holier of my con- \ntemplative moods, it has been as though there \nwere among the trees, and in the air, and in the \nmere passing of time, a presence like the mind \nof Christ. It was the feeling of the Father\'s \nbeing with me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd with us he is always, and in death we \nshall not be alone, for he will be with us. Per- \nhaps, towards death, my fancy may get diseased \nas well as my body, and so the world be sick- \nlied to me, and there be no cheerfulness in the \nsunshine, nor in human voices, nor in homely \ncomforts. Or perhaps I may become both blind \nand deaf, and have all sights and sounds shut out \nfrom me. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut the Father is not to be shut out from the \nsoul by any thing else than the soul\'s own act. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLord ! leave me not, neither forsake me ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNor will he. Nor is it likely that this earth \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 277 \n\nwill be a dungeon to die in, if, to live in, it has \nbeen like the presence of God about us, vaguely, \nperhaps, but devoutly felt. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIf I should grow melancholy, I will remember \nwhat happy days I have had ; and I will think it \nis not the world that is altered, but myself, and \nnot myself, even, so much as my nerves. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nDesponding am I ? It is from my bodily dis- \nease, and not from life\'s being gloomy. For is \nnot the sun shining ? do not boys and girls play ? \nare not laborers singing at their work, at this very \ntime ? and is not this a marriage-day with many \nand many a happy man and wife ? Sometimes \nmelancholy is greater than it would otherwise be, \nthrough selfishness, through not rejoicing with \nthem that do rejoice. And then, in itself, this \nearth is what we ought to die out of triumphantly. \nFor in this lower world, has not God\'s presence \nbeen what rightly makes us long for a manifesta- \ntion of it, higher and still plainer ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAdversity I have had ; but much of it has \ncome of my fellow-men. Pain I have had, but \nmuch of it has been of my own incurring. Dark \ndays I have had, but then some have been very \nbright. And then I have had no suffering of any \nkind but might have been the making of my char- \n\n\n\n278 EUTHANASY. \n\nacter. So that the general impression of life up- \non me ought to be encouraging and trustful \n\nATTBIN. \n\nAnd a holy confidence in our destiny. Morn- \ning after morning, God has gladdened me with \nlight, so regularly, these many years. And night \nafter night, he has curtained me round with dark- \nness so peacefully, so blessedly, that I ought not \nto shrink from death only because the night of it \nis so very dark ; for though very dark, it is not \nthe less divine. Nay, at its coming on, God\'s \nhand moves in it, almost to our feeling. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, your words are very soothing, and I \nhope rightly so ; and, indeed, I think they are ; \nbecause, though lofty, they do not embolden or \nexcite me. And among our thoughts, those \nwhich are grand and calm, both, are almost al- \nways the truest. But your voice is soothing, and \nwhen you talk of the grave, you say the word \nin such a way as to make it feel like a spacious \nhome, instead of a narrow house. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nHowever, it is neither for us Christians, nor for \nus living souls. For what is a dead body ? It is \na worn-out garment of the soul. It is what is to \nbe reckoned along with the clothes, the books, the \nfurniture, the instruments, of a deceased friend. \nAnd then the earth does not open into a grave, of \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 279 \n\nherself ; for it is man who digs that, and peoples \nit with horror. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe body returns unto the earth as it was \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut the soul rises elsewhere, wise with the \nknowledge which has come of its earthly dwell- \ning, and sometimes so grown into the spirit of this \nplanetary system as to be like the rich germ of a \nnew world. And such a soul does not rise un- \nheeded out of this earth into the realm of spirits. \nThat is not to be thought, any more than it is \nlikely that new stars rise out of an abyss by \nchance. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFor every new year, for every fresh state, for \nboyhood after infancy, for youth after boyhood, \nfor manhood after youth, for my old age, \xe2\x80\x94 for \nevery change in life, my soul has been the better, \nor might have been ; and so the last great change \nwill be greatly the better for me, as I ought to \nbelieve. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nRightly reasoned, uncle. Sometimes our fel- \nlow-men wrong and grieve us ; but it is not in \nthem we trust either for life or against death. If \nthey wrong us, it is because they do not know \nwhat they do, \xe2\x80\x94 do not even know that they \nwrong themselves. It is easy to forgive them, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n280 EUTHANASY. \n\npoor fellow-creatures. Bat what is not so easy, \nand yet is necessary for us, and is a duty, is to \nkeep ourselves unembittered by even what ill- \ntreatment we have quite forgiven. Because a \nsoul, for being bitter, is the weaker in its faith \nboth towards God and man, and in an hereafter. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nAh ! if only we did love our enemies, then \nheaven would be a natural hope with us ; for \ncommonly the man who loves most hopes the \nhighest. I will try to be what I ought to be \ntowards my fellow-creatures, and so I shall have \njoy and peace in believing. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. And, O ! this world is so beauti- \nful, that it is like a Divine smile about us always ; \nand it is so hopeful, that we ought to die out of it \nquite willingly and courageously. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 281 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV. \n\nSublime is the faith of a lonely soul, \n\nIn pain and trouble cherished ; \nSublime the spirit of hope that lives, \n\nWhen earthly hope has perished. \xe2\x80\x94 John Wilson. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe gloomy, gloomy world ! And so it is to \na gloomy man. But it is a bright, bright world \nto me ; to-day at least it is. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nAnd a very happy world it would be, if the \npeople in it were as little covetous as you, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOurs, ours, \xe2\x80\x94 the world must be ours. Our \nGod\'s it is ; but for a selfish man, that is not \nenough, or rather it is nothing. So many mil- \nlions of us want to have the world, every one for \nhimself! And against this there are so many \nmillions of impossibilities ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd if we had the whole world, there would \nstill be our souls to be saved. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhich in some countries is not a very easy \nthing for a man owning only a few miles of land. \n\n\n\n282 ETJTHANASY. \n\nThe whole world ours, but without God in it ! \nWould any thing tempt us to take the atheistical \nownership ? You shall have your own way in it ; \nGod shall not mind you ; and there shall be in it \nno laws of right, or truth, or love, for you to \nknow of. What you are and do, you shall be \nand you shall do, but without God ; and in your \nactions there shall be no Divine end answered ; \nand in what you become, there shall be no like- \nness to God. The world shall be yours, all \nyours, but yours only, your miserable own. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat a thought ! It is what would spread into \na hell worse than Dante\'s. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd the opposite of it is heaven, \xe2\x80\x94 indeed, \nthe heaven of the Gospel. Ownership in the \nworld I have none, but I have infinite interest in \nit ; for if not my own, it is my God\'s ; and so it \nis mine in a higher than a legal sense. Yes, this \nis the beauty, this is the whole sublimity, this is \nthe tender delight of life, \xe2\x80\x94 that it is of God\'s \ngoverning. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nWhat says the Psalmist ? The earth is the \nLord\'s, and the fulness thereof. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd it is mine, not in law, but better still, in \nGod. I have a use of it with which sealed \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 283 \n\nparchments have nothing to do. There is a tract \nof land ; the soil is rich ; the situation sheltered ; \nit is well wooded, and well watered, and like \nwhat lie along Yarrow ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFair scenes for childhood\'s opening bloom, \n\nFor sportive youth to stray in ; \nFor manhood to enjoy his strength, \n\nAnd age to wear away in. \n\nAs I look at such a scene, at the garden, and the \npark, at the walks to walk in, the old trees to sit \nunder, the wide view to be glad at, the meadows \nwith the cattle in, and the fields perhaps yellow \nwith corn, I am persuaded of there being in my \ncircumstances a grandeur of promise greater than \nI can guess. For I think to myself, God could \nhave made the scene of my life like that ; but as \nhe has not, it is because it is better for me other- \nwise. Plenty, comfort, and delightfulness are \nwithheld from me for a purpose. And so I think \nto myself, what a happy purpose it must prove. \nAnd from the things which I have not, I persuade \nmyself of the glories that I am heir to. Or, \nrather, this is what. I used to do ; for now I have \nevery comfort I could wish, through your kind- \nness, dear uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, my dear Oliver, the kindness is yours. \nBut do not mention it, for you humble me, \xe2\x80\x94 you \ndo, indeed. For I know there is nothing I can \n\n\n\n284 EUTHANASY. \n\ndo for you that can possibly be a return for the \nprofit and pleasure of your conversation. It is \nonly for your body I can do any thing ; but, Oli- \nver, you help me to feel myself a soul, a living \nsoul, in a world with God in it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA world with almightiness in it ; and so a \nworld of infinite promise for us all. For what it \nis is pain and poverty to what it might be, and \ntherefore to what it will be, or will be followed \nby ; for God is the Lord Almighty and Al- \nbrightful. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAlmighty and Albrightful ! Whose words are \nthose, for they are not yours, I think, nor this \n\nage\'s ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThey are Wickliffe\'s. But as I was saying, \nuncle, I enjoy myself in other people\'s enjoy- \nments. One of the happiest hours I ever had \nwas at a village, one day, when there was a wed- \nding there. The road between the bride\'s home \nand the church was spanned by arches of flowers. \nThe bells rung ; and men and women all spoke \ncheerfully ; and the air was so still, as though \nwaiting in the sunshine to listen to the bells. \nAnd up through the trees, to the church, came \nthe wedding-party, \xe2\x80\x94 the bride in her modesty \nand grace, and the bridegroom in his joy and his \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 285 \n\nstrength. That my marriage-day could ever be \na festival for a whole neighbourhood was not for \nme to think. But the general joy, and the rich \ndresses, and the scattering of flowers, and the \nthronging together of all the neighbours, and the \npeace of the bride and the bridegroom, as they \ncame away from the church, with a blessing on \nthem from their Father in heaven, \xe2\x80\x94 the happi- \nness of all this was like my own, through sympa- \nthy. It was as though my heart were the larger \nfor feeling it. And I went away from that sweet \nvillage with more hope in life, because they were \ncreatures of my own nature who had been made \nso happy. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nRejoice with them that do rejoice. And what \ncomes of this commandment is indeed a tender \nand a holy joy. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt would not be good for us all to be outwardly \nhappy ; nor would there be room in the world \nfor us all to have every thing we could wish. \nBut there are some few of us whom Nature \nclothes in all her graces, and houses in all her \ncomforts, and brings out to walk on smooth \nroads, in love and honor, from all their neigh- \nbours. And it is as though it were said to us, \nu Even out of this earth can you spirits be made \nthus happy when it is good for you." And then \n\n\n\n286 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nthe spirit within us witnesses, if we will let it, \xe2\x80\x94 \n" Even so ; and God be thanked ! t But better \nthan happiness itself is the soul\'s trust that waits \nfor it, \xe2\x80\x94 that patiently waits thy giving, Father of \nspirits ! " \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTrue, Oliver, true. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe love there is among dearly loving friends is \nwhat will be felt for me when I am known, as I \nshall be, hereafter. While I am in this right \nframe of mind, every happy event, everywhere, \nsounds in the telling like Divine encouragement \nsaying to me, " Thou art not forgotten, my son, \nand for thee there is a blessing with thy Father in \nheaven." Already there are the beginnings of \nDivine justice in our lives, and they and our own \nsense of justice persuade us that right will be done \nto that instinct of happiness which is in us, if not \nin this life, then so surely in another. So that a \nrighteous man in long pain, in poverty, or in sor- \nrow, is a sight before heaven that helps to make \nimmortality certain. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd when such a man weeps, and we weep \nwith him, we feel so tenderly that God cannot \nforget the sufferer. Nowhere have I found anoth- \ner life feel so sure as I have in a sick-room, after \nmy having prayed by the bedside of some one \ndangerously ill. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 287 \n\nATTBIN. \n\nFrom others being dear to us, we know how \ndear they must be to God. I trust God cares for \nme ; but that he cares for others I feel strongly, \nand almost as though I knew it by sight. It is \nthrough sympathy with others that we have the \nsweetest, or some of our sweeter assurances of \nDivine goodness. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHave not we ourselves but \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere was a man that once injured me much, \nthrough religious bigotry. Afterwards, misfortune \nthreatened him, and very pitifully, for he was \nan old man ; but it passed away from him at last, \nsuddenly and very pleasantly. When I learned \nthe news, which I did by letter, at once I knelt \nand worshipped God ; and then I thanked God \nfor the sweet pleasure I felt. I think I have \nbeen more glad in God for what good fortune has \nhappened to others, than for what has befallen \nmyself. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, Oliver, why should you, and how could \nyou have done so ? And was it right ? It is \nvery true that you have never had much happi- \nness ; but when it was granted you at all, I think \nyou ought \n\n\n\n288 ETJTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYou do not understand me, uncle. I did not \nsay that I had been more glad of other men\'s \nhappiness than my own ; but that I had been \nmore glad in God. Because it is long, very long, \nbefore we receive happiness properly. For we \nare too apt to take it as though it were our right, \nor our merit, or some w T ay our own getting. And \nthen in the first possession of good fortune there \nis the feeling of gratified selfishness ; and that \ndefiles the purity of joy in God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHardly so, Oliver, surely. But your meaning \nis right, I think. The earth is full of the good- \nness of the Lord ; and we ought to think of this, \nand not merely of what joy flows out of our own \nlittle fountains, which run dry sometimes, perhaps \nthrough their having been tampered with. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTo me, at times, the happier this earth seems, \nthe surer heaven feels ; and for this reason, I sup- \npose, \xe2\x80\x94 that to be grateful to God is to be confi- \ndent in him. So, along with some poet, \n\nI think of all the glorious things \n\nWhich o\'er this earth are spread, \nOf mighty peasants and the kings \n\nThat under it lie dead. \n\nO those memories of the good and great, \xe2\x80\x94 how I \nlove them ! And how much in the world there is \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 289 \n\nto think of and love ! \xe2\x80\x94 green nooks between \nwoody hills, with the sunshine on them, \xe2\x80\x94 corn- \nfields ready for reaping, \xe2\x80\x94 the harvest moon at its \nrising, \xe2\x80\x94 men fighting sublimely with the elements \nat sea, and on land turning them into service, \xe2\x80\x94 \nwomen in their beauty, and their strange, sweet \npower, \xe2\x80\x94 firesides with families about them, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe laugh of a little child, \xe2\x80\x94 the fondness of a \nChristian father, \xe2\x80\x94 the sensation of reading some \nvery good book for the first time, and in man- \nhood, \xe2\x80\x94 and friendships, those true ones that are \ntrusted in the more, the more God is trusted in. \nIn all these things, what delight there is is not \nchance, but God ; and the more devoutly one \nfeels it to be God, the more it feels like what \nwill last and grow for ever. God in our enjoy- \nment ! O, then there is a something of infinity in \nit ! Yes, God is in our happiness ; and because \nhe has let us know of his being in it, he will be in \nit for us for ever. For the Father would not \nhave let us know that his gifts to us are from \nabove, and out of an infinite treasury, if he did \nnot intend us more than we have, much more, \ninfinitely more. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo we will trust. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd, uncle, so we ought to trust. For why \nare we made to recollect past pleasures ? Not \n19 \n\n\n\n\n290 EUTHANASY. \n\nfor us to regret them ; but so as for us, out of \nsuch remembrances, to hope in heaven the bet- \nter. And, indeed, our highest thoughts do not \nreach what will be the level of our happiness \nhereafter. For every instant it will be sublimer \nthan first hearing the organ in York Minster, and \nmore tender than lovers\' faith, and more joyful \nthan a birthday with many friends to keep it, and \nmore earnest than any earthly act of self-sacrifice. \nO, how free I shall feel hereafter ! And O the \ntruths I shall know of, the beauty I shall see, and \nthe friends I shall have ! At first our everlasting \nlife will be like a summer\'s day, so calm, and \nbeautiful, and long. But it will prove a day that \nwill last on, and on, and on. And when no night \ncomes, and we do not get weary, and all things \nkeep on brightening about us, as the eyes of our \nunderstandings open, then, little by little, we shall \nbegin, in awe and wonder, to feel what it is to be \nimmortal. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 291 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI. \n\nAnd being but one, she can do all things : and remaining in herself, she \nmaketh all things new: and in all ages entering into holy souls, she mak- \neth them friends of God and prophets. For God loveth none but him that \ndwelleth with wisdom. For she is more beautiful than the sun, and above \nall the order of the stars : being compared with the light, she is found be- \nfore it. \xe2\x80\x94 Wisdom of Solomon. \n\nBut understand thou for thyself, and seek out the glory for such as be \nlike thee. For unto you is paradise opened, the tree of life is planted, the \ntime to come is prepared, plenteousness is ready, a city is builded, and \nrest is allowed, yea, perfect goodness and wisdom. \xe2\x80\x94 Esdras. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI do not think you like hearing of new discov- \neries, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, what can have made you think so, Oli- \nver ? For it would be foolish in me to dislike \nnew inventions, or newly discovered principles. \n\nBut, \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps Well, I will confess, at \n\nfirst hearing, my feeling is not altogether pleasure \nin them. I do not know why it is not. Perhaps \nyou can tell me. But you, Oliver, \xe2\x80\x94 you rejoice \nin any new discovery almost as though you had \nmade it yourself. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo I do, and really for that reason. As re- \ngards a machine, the best thing is the invention of \n\n\n\n\n292 ETJTHANASY. \n\nit, the next best is understanding it, and a long \nway after this is the money it may be made to \nearn. Of all inventions, the best thing is the in- \ngenuity in them ; and what is noblest in all dis- \ncoveries is the mind with which they were made \nout. It is the soul that is the greatness of all hu- \nman achievements. And these great achieve- \nments I love to hear of, for they make me feel \nmy own greatness, and not presumptuously ; for \nin other men\'s crimes I acknowledge my own \nevil liabilities. Human nature is dear to me in \nevery form of it, \xe2\x80\x94 in what is told of great kings, \nand in what I have myself learned from a beggar- \nwoman, \xe2\x80\x94 in the prattle of infancy, in the eager \nmovements of youth, and in the solemn words of \na man ripe and ready for death. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is because you either have been, or may \npossibly be, in some such situations yourself. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut then I love human nature as it is to be \nread of in Homer\'s Iliad, in the temples, on the \nobelisks, and in the tombs of Egypt, in the apoc- \nryphal books of the Jews, in the Arabian Nights\' \nEntertainments, in Snorro Sturleson\'s Sagas of \nthe Norsemen, in the Chronicles of Jocelin of \nBrakelond, in Chaucer\'s Canterbury Tales, and \nin Catlin\'s account of the American Indians. \nNot exactly as Paul meant, yet quite truly, all \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 293 \n\nover the world, and in all ages, we all have been \nmade to drink into one spirit. If a man is a man \nin head and heart, and has been so in action be- \nsides, then he has an interest in all human things, \nand a something of right in them. What Beau- \nmont and Fletcher make a man say in one of \ntheir plays, I myself feel, and \n\nWhen any falls from virtue, I am distract, \nI have an interest in \'t. \n\nIt is but little I have been, or have had an op- \nportunity of being. Yet when I think of good \nand great men, sometimes there comes over my \nmind a strange feeling of fellowship in glory with \nthem. In me, and in them, there is one soul, \nand I have not lived altogether unworthily of it ; \nand so in them I recognize my own nature as it \nis, or else as it may be made by prayer and the \nDivine grace. The end of Leonidas, and Ste- \nphen\'s martyrdom, are mirrors in which my soul \nsees her own devotedness. I can conceive, and \npartly I have lived, the pains and perseverance \nin which the pyramids of Egypt were built ; and \nso, in some sense, they are monuments of the la- \nboriousness of my nature. It is my own way of \nthinking and feeling that is in the better parts of \nthe writings of Fenelon and George Fox ; and so \nfrom those books is reflected the character of my \nmind. The zeal of St. Paul, \xe2\x80\x94 Milton\'s patri- \notism, \xe2\x80\x94 Pascal\'s purity, \xe2\x80\x94 Galileo\'s sight into \n\n\n\n294 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nthe stars, \xe2\x80\x94 the exactness of Cuvier\'s account of \ncreatures that perished from this earth more than \na myriad years ago, \xe2\x80\x94 what King Alfred was, \xe2\x80\x94 \nwhat "Washington was, \xe2\x80\x94 the mind of the Pilgrim \nFathers, \xe2\x80\x94 O, what a cloud of witnesses these \nare ! And how they testify the greatness of the \nhuman soul ! With thoughts like these, the more \nmy soul warms, the more immortal it feels, and \nrightly ; for one way I am every thing that I \nlove ; and, indeed, altogether I am, almost. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, if only you could have health and strength ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd then, dear uncle, I should very likely be \nnothing remarkable. Because, for one famous \nman, there are a thousand, ay, and ten thousand, \ndeservers. Excellence is commoner than is \nthought, the essence of it is ; only it does \nnot get expressed, \xe2\x80\x94 sometimes out of modesty, \nsometimes for want of opportunity, but oftenest \nfor want of some little knack. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou think so ? But is not that as though some \nbetter souls had been made for impossible pur- \nposes ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nPurposes impossible in this world, and there- \nfore so highly presumptive of another world. \nOften, for one hero, there are a hundred heroic \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n295 \n\n\n\nspirits, only they do not get into action. Because \na hero needs five hundred square miles for a \nstage ; while that space of land is not meant to be \nonly the theatre for one man to act in, but the na- \ntive country of ten million people. And so out \nof a hundred persons who are heroical by nature, \none is allowed to be so in action ; and the rest, \nthrough sympathy with him, feel themselves, and \nknow themselves, and grow stronger. And every \nthrill of their souls is prophetic of the high use \nwhich God will make of them all hereafter. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is well argued, Oliver. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nIf a man does earnestly what duty he has to \ndo, then he is any and every character that he \ntruly loves, \xe2\x80\x94 he is Howard, the philanthropist, \nand Sidney, the patriot, and John, the Apostle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou cannot mean \n\nAT7BIN. \n\nThat he is those men, or what they really \nwere ; but I mean that he is, and is truly, what \nthey seem to him. As soon as I do thoroughly \nunderstand and feel Bacon\'s Essays, they may \nbe regarded as utterances, \xe2\x80\x94 no ! every thing but \nthat. They may then stand as the measure of \nmy wisdom, \xe2\x80\x94 no ! not that ; but they may be \nregarded as the manner in which I should myself \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\nthink, if only some little change, some slight free- \ndom, were wrought within my soul. How grand \nthat engraving from Michael Angelo is ! And, \nO, what purity, what unearthly beauty, what \nheavenly-mindedness, there is in that Madonna of \nCorreggio ! But what I see in these pictures is \nwhat I feel in my own mind ; and what I feel \nwhile looking at them is what I am capable of \nfeeling in other things, \xe2\x80\x94 in duty, in virtuous as- \npirations, in my prayers to God, and in my hymns \nto him, and in my thoughts of an hereafter. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, I think the artist will be more availing \nin the world than he has ever been ; religiously, \nI mean. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so I think, uncle. But I do not think \nthe Puritans were wrong in their age for dashing \nout painted windows, and removing pictures from \nchurches, and pulling down organs, and unfrock- \ning the choristers, and white-washing gilded orna- \nments ; because it is possible a worshipper in a \nchurch may be the worse for such things as these ; \nand, indeed, he will be greatly the worse for them, \nunless he is earnest and enlightened. I think, \nuncle, I have noticed, that, wherever there is a \ngreat taste for music or painting, character is the \nbetter, or else very much the worse for it. One \nor two persons I know, the tone of whose minds \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 297 \n\nis to me revolting, \xe2\x80\x94 made so, as I think, by \ntheir indulgence, \xe2\x80\x94 the very word ! \xe2\x80\x94 by their \nindulgence in the fine arts. A man\'s moral sense \nmust be quick, and his reason well trained, or \nelse, in loving beauty, he will be courting refined \nperdition. Still, uncle, I agree with you. And \nI think there will come a time when music and \npainting, and sculpture and architecture, will be \nreligious helps, \xe2\x80\x94 and more safely used than they \nwere in Greece, and more successfully than they \nhave ever been in the Catholic Church, or ever \nwill be. For truth can be more beautifully ex- \npressed than error. And then genius, especial- \nly the highest, is religious ; and so it is more \nor less religiously darkened, unless purely Chris- \ntian. Nor are all forms of Christianity indiffer- \nent. For the state of mind which Paul argues \nfor against the Jews is exactly the mood in which \nalone genius is creative, \xe2\x80\x94 a soul acting out of its \nown purified state, and not abiding fearfully by \ncustoms and outward laws. Now when this \nChristian spirit becomes common, an artist will \nhave that for his usual temper, almost, which, as \nyet, is only his genial and often very rare mood. \nO, yes ! the purely Christian spirit will be the \ninspiration of a glorious literature ; and it will \npossess the minds of sculptors, painters, archi- \ntects, and musicians, and make them priests unto \nGod. \n\n\n\n298 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAll noblest things are religious, \xe2\x80\x94 not temples \nand martyrdoms only, but the best books, pic- \ntures, poetry, statues, and music. Very strongly \nthis testifies the truth of religion. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is not in prayer only that the soul approaches \nGod, for it is drawn nigher him by all the higher \nobjects it turns to. If a poet will sing his noblest \nstrain, it is into the ear of God he does it ; if an \narchitect will build in his sublimest manner, it is \na house for God he makes ; and if a true artist \nwill do his best in music, it is God whom he must \nhave in his mind to glorify, or else to mourn to. \nAnd every earnest movement of the mind of man \nis upwards, and to God, \xe2\x80\x94 making us sure of \nthat Divine presence, toward which the soul is \nmeant to be reaching, and in which, hereafter, \nwill be its heaven. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt must be, and it is, \xe2\x80\x94 yes, what you have \nnow said is part of that witness which God has \nnever left himself without in the world and the \nsoul. And, Oliver, you have pointed it out very \nbeautifully. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd all knowledge, properly held, points to \nGod. Science is in our hands like a Divine \ngift ; and, rightly thought of, it persuades us of \na spiritual world which we are akin to. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 299 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt ought to do, \xe2\x80\x94 yes, it ought to do. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nGeologically, botanically, geographically, and \nevery way, the better we know the world, the \nmore familiar it feels, and like a home made for \nus. This broad and various earth a home for \nus to live in ! Then we may heartily believe the \nMaker of it to be our Father Almighty. Uncle, \nyour uneasiness at new knowledge, and my joy in \nit, is the difference of our two philosophies. You \nplant yourself upon certain reasons, and you say, \n11 As long as I have these to stand upon, I know \nthat the eye of God must be turned upon rrie as \nhis child." But some of those reasons alter a \nlittle with every new thought, and so you feel as \nthough the foundations under you were uncertain. \nBut my way of thinking is this : \xe2\x80\x94 as surely as I \nlive, there is a God ; and my soul claims God as \nmore than her Maker, as being her Father ; and \nas surely as my soul was meant to feel at all, \nGod is towards me what he feels to be ; and so \nhe must be, and is, the Father of spirits. God \nis truth ; and so every new truth I learn is fresh \nlikeness in me to God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, it is, and no doubt ought to be so thought \nof, notwithstanding what Solomon says about the \nsorrowful growth of knowledge. \n\n\n\n300 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIn science and in manufactures, new principles, \nor fresh applications of them, are from the Father \nof lights, and are meant to assure and reassure us \nof our near relationship to him. O uncle ! there \nare glad and solemn seasons in which what is \ncalled the light of civilization is to my feeling the \nlight of God among men ; and so indeed it is. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOur knowledge is God\'s giving, no doubt ; and \nour uses of it, when innocent, are according to \nhis intentions. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhat is the difference between savage and \ncivilized life ? It is mind. This house and all \nthe articles in it are the results of thought. In \nevery brick about us, there is skill ; in every \nchair and table, there is intention ; in this couch, \nthere is the idea of the inventor ; and it is not \nonly with colored wool that the floor is carpeted, \nbut also with taste, and with the perseverance \nand attention of many hours, and many thinkers, \n\xe2\x80\x94 sheep-shearer, wool-comber, yarn-spinner, dy- \ner, designer, and weaver. Why does my shirt \ndiffer from green plants in a hemp field ; or this \npair of shoes from a yard of ox-hide ? By the \ningenuity in them. Why, what way of life we \nreally are living is much more spiritual than we \noften think it. \n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 301 \n\nMARHAM. \n\n>o it is, Oliver ; so it is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMan might have been created with the strength \nof an elephant, and the swiftness of an antelope, \nand with clothing as strong as what the rhinoceros \nwears, and as light as the plumage of the bird of \nparadise, and as gay. In his eye there might \nhave been the glance of the eagle, and the sight \nof the owl ; and so day and night would have \nbeen alike to him. And as in the north the skin \nof the fox is of one color in summer and another \nin winter, so the human body might have been \nmade to adapt itself readily to the four seasons \nand the five zones. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMan would have been made so if it had been \ngood for him. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is good for him ; and he is made so, nearly. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAll the powers which you have been speaking \nof \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAre in the human hand. The hand is a won- \nderful thing ; and without it, the soul of man \nwould have been always unknown, and never \nwould have known herself; because she could \nnot have exercised herself, could not have quick- \n\n\n\n302 EUTHANASY. \n\nened, and struggled, and learned. She would \nnot have been known of, although she still would \nhave been a soul ; just as we know now that there \nis the same and as quick a spirit in the deaf and \ndumb, as in those that have all the five senses. \nWhat delicate touch there is in the finger-ends ! \nHow well the hand is made to grasp ! The hand \nwas not meant to fit into the arm at the wrist \nmore plainly than it is itself fitted to a hammer \nand to a needle. When the muscles of the hand \nwere made, there was thought of what work the \nhand would have to do ; and so, as I think, a \nhammer, an axe, a needle, were as much meant \nto become continuations of the hand, as the hand \nwas intended to be a prolongation of the arm. \nThe hand was made for tools, as much as to be \njointed at the wrist. A carpenter\'s tools, a min- \ner\'s implements, and a steam-engine are as much \ninstruments of the soul as the fingers are. And \nbecause they can be laid aside, their convenience \nis so much the greater ; for otherwise they would \nbe oppressively many limbs. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI am listening, Oliver, and I am wondering. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSaw, hammer, gimlet, pincers, trowel, \xe2\x80\x94 the \nhand of man is all these things, for it makes them \nand uses them. In the hand of the first man, \nthere might have been read, as things that would \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 303 \n\ncertainly be, \xe2\x80\x94 houses, furniture, forges, woollen \nclothes, shawls of silk, mastery of the horse, \nploughs, ships, and railroads. \n\nMARHAM. \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nThat is quite true, Oliver ; and so, for what \nyou have remarked, we ought to believe the more \nlargely in those Christian promises which sound at \nfirst too great for fulfilment ; because we do not \nknow what our souls may admit of. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, in our souls there are greater \nthings, grander heights, and more fearful depths, \nand more glorious issues, than even pride thinks \nof; just as in the mind of Adam, and unknown to \nhim, were the beginnings of the tents of the pa- \ntriarchs, and the art of Tubalcain, and the life of \nNimrod, and all the kingdoms of the world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFrom what men are over what they once were, \nwe may well believe in a life of the spirit to fol- \nlow this life in the flesh. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSt. Bernard reminds his readers that men do \nnot come into the world glittering with jewels or \ngarnished with silks ; but that they are born naked, \nand poor, and miserable, and wretched, \xe2\x80\x94 blush- \ning because they are naked, and weeping because \nthey are born. It is very true, \xe2\x80\x94 it is mournfully \ntrue, says the old father ; but it is sublimely true, \n\n\n\n304 ETTTHANASY. \n\nI think. Let us remember what we are born, \nand consider how we live, and so we shall feel \nourselves greater than we have thought, perhaps. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDeath is spoken of as going the way of all \nflesh ; but we do not live the way of other crea- \ntures ; so, in death, why should we fear going it ? \n\nA\xc2\xa5BIN. \n\nWearing clothes, living in houses, working at \ntrades, \xe2\x80\x94 all our way of life, \xe2\x80\x94 come of the man- \nner in which the hand is shaped. The soul of \nman being what it is, his way of living might have \nbeen, and no doubt was, foreknown from the make \nof his hand. An angel might have said to the \nfirst human family, \xe2\x80\x94 " Work, \xe2\x80\x94 do you human \ncreatures work, because you are made for suc- \ncessful work ; for by my foresight I can see rising \nafar off what you cannot see, nor I tell you of \nwell, \xe2\x80\x94 -factories, docks, warehouses, corn-mills, \nobservatories, churches, and cities." Man\'s \nhand was shaped for the mastery of this world, \nand this world is being mastered. Now in the \nsoul there is faith, \xe2\x80\x94 a faculty with which for man \nto lay hold of the next world ; and so shall it not, \n\xe2\x80\x94 this faith that we feel, \xe2\x80\x94 shall it not be evi- \ndence enough for us of things not seen ? \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nIt ought to be ; and the more we know of our- \nselves, the better proof it will be felt to be. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 305 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWas Adam\'s impulse to action a chance ? \nSurely not. And was not it true and most trust- \nworthy ? Yes ; for of it have come ploughed \nfields, granaries, streets of houses, furniture, \nclothing, and outwardly all that we are of what \nwe were meant to be. Now there are impulses \nin us that have a spiritual world for their object. \nThen they are to be trusted to ; for cannot we \nbe sure, \xe2\x80\x94 do not we know, \xe2\x80\x94 that we are truly, \nand not deceitfully, made ? A world to come \nwe can think of, and we do hope for, and we can \nwork for ; then it is before us, it is intended for \nus, and it is awaiting us as certainly as Memphis, \nand Jerusalem, and Rome, and London, waited \nmen\'s hands, to begin rising under them. The \nshape of man\'s hand was meant to have for its \nobject and reward all this civilized life which we \nare living ; and just as truly faith has for its end \nand recompense a life of the soul, holy, happy, \nand everlasting. Nay, in spirit did not St. John \neven see for us that great city, New Jerusalem, \ncoming down from God out of heaven ? And \nwe, we ourselves, in our peaceful moments, do \nnot we hear voices gentle and great, and some \nof them like the voices of departed friends, \xe2\x80\x94 \ndo we not hear them saying to us, " Come up \nhither" ? \n\n20 \n\n\n\n306 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nWe do, we do. And the nigher we draw to \nGod, the plainer we hear them. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOnly let us think what kind of a life it is that \nwe are living, and then eternity is to be lived \nfor with almost the same assurance that to-mor- \nrow is. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 307 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII. \n\nHe saw through life and death, through good and ill, \n\nHe saw through his own soul. \nThe marvel of the everlasting will, \n\nAn open scroll, \nBefore him lay. \xe2\x80\x94Tennyson. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO uncle, uncle, I do feel so weary to-day ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is from the hot day, Oliver. And you have \nnothing to do. But you are so restless for action. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut just now I loathe the word. O, I am a- \nweary, so weary ! And why must we be doing, \ndoing, always doing, \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 why ought we to be ? Man \nmade for action!\' \xe2\x80\x94 he is not. For thought and \nfeeling are the great end of life. We are to act \nso that we may eat, and drink, and get ourselves \nclothed and housed. But we are not to live for \nfood and houses ; but food and houses are to be \nstriven for, for the sake of living ; and we are to \nlive for the sake of knowledge and feeling. Ac- \ntion for the mere sake of doing is worthless, for \nthere is no soul in it ; and it is even what a man \nmay be the worse for. O, there is sincerity, and \n\n\n\n308 EUTHANASY. \n\ngreatness, and spiritual growth, in quiet, when it \nis not indolence ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI cannot understand what you mean, Oliver. \nYou have great aptitude for action, though you \nhave not had much opportunity of showing it. \nAnd then you made work for yourself, and did it, \nmany years. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so now, perhaps, I can talk usefully a little. \nFor, uncle, I am persuaded that a man must have \ndone many a good thing before he is fit to say one. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, you make knowledge to be the end of \naction, and not action to be the proper result of \nknowledge, as the common judgment is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI do not say the mind gets informed by action, \n\xe2\x80\x94 bodily action ; but it does get earnestness and \nstrength by it, and that nameless something that \ngives a man the mastership of his faculties. But \nI shall strive and work no more. I am in a little \nboat far below the city of life ; and it is impossi- \nble for me to return to where voices are many \nand loud. I can only be quiet, and think how \nthe stream of time is sweeping me fast into the \nocean of eternity. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut you are looking better, Oliver, though you \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 309 \n\nare not quite so strong this hot weather. And if \nyou should not get well again, it will be the will \nof God ; and, Oliver, we must submit to it. \nAnd I am sure you are resigned, though you may \nfeel it very sad to be withdrawn from active life \nso soon. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut, uncle, I do not. But, indeed, I never \ncould get into active life. For it is not often to \nbe entered without help, from such a position in \nthe world as I was early reduced to. Once I \nwas asked what friends I had of any mark ; I \nconfessed I had none at all, and so I lost what \nwould have been a fresh start for me in life. \nAnd then occurred to me what I had never \nthought of before, but what long ago Thomas \nDecker knew of, when he pondered, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShall I contract myself to wisdom\'s love ? \nThen I lose riches ; and a wise man poor \nIs like a sacred book that \'s never read. \nTo himself he lives, and to all else seems dead. \n\nThe disappointments, and the battle, and the fret \nof life are over with me ; and perhaps my strength \nfor a walk of twenty miles is over. But the re- \nmembrances of life, and the feelings that have \nbeen made in me by living it, \xe2\x80\x94 these are not \nover ; and a great happiness they are, along with \nthis peace which I have now, through you, uncle. \nMy spirit was not calm enough to profit thor- \n\n\n\n310 EUTHANASY. \n\nougbly by the last six years of my life ; for they \nwere often so very anxious. But now I am liv- \ning them all over again in thought, and getting the \nwiser for them, and the more Christian, as I \nhope. For I can pray, and I can think, though \nI cannot work, \xe2\x80\x94 cannot stir, nor act much. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, I am sorry to say that, myself, I am \nsometimes distressed at not being able to do what \nI used to do. And often I have been grieved \nfor you ; I could find you means and friends \nto enter life with. But perhaps you will be strong \nenough yet to do something in the world. And \nthis is such an age in the world, too. For now \nthere are so many things doing and likely to be \ndone, and such new prospects are opening in so- \nciety. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, among men in yonder town, plans are be- \ning canvassed and principles argued ; and in the \nfuture, there are to be seen the dim outlines of \nstrange and lofty institutions. This is an age de- \ncisive of the world\'s future for centuries. One \ntrue word uttered now is mightier than books \nwere no long while since. And as the world \ngrows lighter with knowledge, new heights of ex- \ncellence are to be seen, and new paths upwards \nare to be found ; and fresh pinnacles of glory \nthere are for men to discover, and to make them- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 311 \n\nselves famous by. This is true, uncle. But I \nam not the man I was a year ago ; for I have \nother hopes, and other fears, and another view of \nlife, than what I had then. Now the spiritual \nworld is almost more real to me than this bodily \nlife. The infinite and the eternal are become \nalmost my element, and in it this round earth rolls \nlike a phantom. And it would be nothing but a \nphantom, and the men and women on it would be \nmerely spectres, were it not for God, who is in \nall things, and is the life and the reality of them. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd the worth, and the only true happiness of \nthem. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhat labor and haste there are in yonder \ntown ! Action, action, action ! The place is \nfull of it. And it is all for daily bread and other \ntemporary things, though there is an eternal pur- \npose which gets answered in it. Money is what \nthe merchant and the mechanic think of as the \nend of their labor ; but there is a further end \nwhich God designs in it, and which is effected on \nthe men themselves. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe strength of mind, the decision, the mas- \ntery of the faculties, which you spoke of just now ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. And now for what it is that com- \n\n\n\n312 ETJTHANASY. \n\nforts me. From all activity I am not disabled ; \nand not at all am I invalided from the divine end \nof exertion, though I am from the worldly pur- \npose of it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is plain, and yet it never occurred to me, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthis twofold use of labor. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThis end beyond an end, \xe2\x80\x94 this abiding pur- \npose achieved in a temporary way. There is the \nlikeness of it in a plant, which seems to blossom \nonly for the sake of beauty, while inside the flow- \ner are forming the seeds of next year\'s plants. \nAnd in many things the way of Providence is \nlike this. Man and woman love one another ; \nand their love is their world ; it is all in all to \nthem ; and nothing further do they think of ; but \nout of their affection is ordained the birth of chil- \ndren. And when a child is born, there is in the \nmind of the parents a feeling for it, like what the \ndove has for its young. But now this fondness \nproves painful, unless the child grows towards the \nexcellence which its father and mother worship ; \nand so the child\'s education is certain. Then \nthe child grows a man, and a creature of many \nwants, which wants the man tries to satisfy ; \nin the trial his mind gets exercised ; and so, be- \nsides comfort, he gets what he did not attempt, \xe2\x80\x94 \nmental strength, aptitude, knowledge. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 313 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat you have been saying is so only with us \nhuman creatures ; and our growth is so peculiar, \nit is so much that of the spirit, and so long, that \nit is plain ours is not so much life in itself as a \ngetting ready to live. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYonder town was founded by persons who \nwanted shelter for their bodies ; but it is dwelt in \nby men with Bibles, \xe2\x80\x94 by living souls. Genius \nis loving and longs to be loved ; it thirsts to be \nunderstood by men and women, and youth, and \nold age ; therefore, in this craving for sympathy, \nthere is security that genius will be communica- \ntive, and so the world be the wiser and the more \nhopeful for it. \xe2\x80\x94 Well, and now men are social \nby nature, and they will and must live together. \nBut this they cannot do, not even trade together, \nwithout honesty and mutual trust. And so even \nin the necessities of trade, justice and judgment \nare rooted, \xe2\x80\x94 the same principles which, when \nlooked at, are seen to rise heavenwards, and to \nbe the foundations of God\'s throne. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so in life, \xe2\x80\x94 the business and the pleasures \nof it, \xe2\x80\x94 there is often a larger meaning than we \nthink of. And we even learn it without knowing. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOften and often God makes use of us as his \n\n\n\n314 EUTHANASY. \n\nservants without our knowledge. And we find \nourselves richly repaid, without our being able to \ntell how. And there are some treasures laid up \nin heaven in our names, that we have never even \nthought of. O, it will only be by what grandeur \nwill come of it, that we shall know rightly what \nthis life has been with us. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt will be so, \xe2\x80\x94 it will be so ; and so we ought \nto be the more earnest in every virtue, as we do \nnot know what great reward it may not lead up to. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNor what higher virtue it may not be the begin- \nning of. For us Christians, it is a law to forgive \nour enemies unto seventy times seven offences. \nBut what is meant for us is that charity which \nbears, hopes, and endures all things. And so a \nChristian begins forgiveness as his duty, but goes \non with it as his happy nature . \xe2\x80\x94 There are many \nChristian things which must be done or held in \nfaith at first ; but we do not do nor believe them \nlong, before knowing of ourselves that they are \nright. And then out of that experience our faith \ngrows stronger, and reaches higher still for us. \nAt first, a child loves his father\'s face, then his \nvoice, then his talk, then wisdom because his \nfather loves it, then wisdom for its own bright \nsake, and then, better still, he loves it for the sake \nof God. We human creatures begin with liking \n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 315 \n\none another for company, then for playing to- \ngether, then, perhaps, for being of service to one \nanother, then for our agreeing in temper ; and then \nwe love one another according to what manner of \nspirit we are of, \xe2\x80\x94 we love one another\'s souls ; \nand then at last we love the world to come, for \nthe noble dwellers in it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLike a bud opening into blossom, \xe2\x80\x94 and beau- \ntiful and natural as that, \xe2\x80\x94 is the way in which this \nbodily manner of existence grows into spiritual life. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAlways when a man lives a good life in his \nhouse, his business, and his dwelling-place, he \ngets to feel that there is growing in him a spirit \nbetter than his life\'s righteousness has been, and \neven higher than this world well allows his show- \ning. It is his fitness for the next life, and it is \nseen by his friends better than it is felt by him- \nself ; and so to all who knew him he is a witness \nof the coming of the kingdom of heaven. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYes, rightly thought of, every good thing in us \nis evidence of our being heirs of God. And if \nwe do love God, every change that comes over \nour souls is felt like an earnest of the kingdom \nthat is promised us. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe growth of the willing soul, \xe2\x80\x94 how won- \n\n\n\n316 EUTHANAST. \n\ndrously it goes on ! There is God in it. And, \nO ! it is to be trusted in infinitely. Last night I \nlay awake, and what we have now been talking \nabout occurred to me ; and in the first warmth of \nthe thought, I felt myself, O, so blessedly the \ncare of Providence, and so sure of glory to be \nreached ! I felt as an angel may when newly \nmade, and quickening in the smile of the Al- \nmighty, and while he is fast growing up the de- \ngrees of intelligence, to where there is not dark- \nness enough for a doubt to be in. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 317 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. \n\nFor us the winds do blow, \nThe earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow. \nNothing we see but means our good, \nAs our delight, or as our treasure : \nThe whole is either our cupboard of food, \nOr cabinet of pleasure. \n\nThe stars have us to bed ; \nNight draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws ; \nMusic and light attend our head. \xe2\x80\x94 George Herbert. \n\n\n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat are you thinking of, Oliver ? Your \ncheeks are so glowing, and your eyes so bright, \nthat I am afraid you are too much excited with \nyour thoughts. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI am trying to recollect something of Cole- \nridge\'s, but I cannot. But I know the passage \nbegins with saying, that every rank of creatures, \nas it ascends in the scale of creation, leaves \ndeath behind it or under it, and is itself a mute \nprophecy of the rank next above it. Sometimes \nwater freezes into a resemblance of ferns and \nleaves, and earth crystallizes into spurs, like plants \nand trees. And then, among trees and flowers, \nthere is what foretokens the animal world in the \n\n\n\n318 EUTHANASY. \n\nsensitive plant, and in the contractile power of \nsuch river-plants as lengthen or shorten the stalk \nwith the rise and fall of the water, and in the cir- \ncumstance of there being male and female trees. \nI think it was Goethe who said that the skeletons \nof many marine creatures clearly show, that, while \nmaking them, nature was plainly intending a high- \ner race of land-animals. And then, among these \ncreatures of the earth, there were things to fore- \nshow what the better nature of man was to be ; \nfor the trunk of the elephant is a rude hand ; and \nthe migratory instinct of the swallow is like strong \nreason ; and the faithfulness of the dove is not \nunlike the affection of man and wife ; and what the \nbeavers make to lodge in is an attempt at a home. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nVery ingenious. Does Coleridge say that ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, uncle. But now I do remember a part of \nwhat I wanted ; and it is the best thing he ever \nwrote, and what ought to be laid up in cedar, as \nhis nephew thinks. " Let us carry ourselves \nback in spirit to the mysterious week, \xe2\x80\x94 the teem- \ning work-days of the Creator, \xe2\x80\x94 as they rose in \nvision before the eye of the inspired historian of \nthe generation of the heavens and earth, in the \nday that the Lord God made the earth and the \nheavens. And who that had watched their ways \nwith an understanding heart could, as the vision \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 319 \n\nevolving still advanced towards him, contem- \nplate the filial and loyal bee ; the home-building, \nwedded, and divorceless swallow ; and above all, \nthe manifoldly intelligent ant-tribes, with their \ncommonwealth and confederacies, their warriors \nand miners, the husbandfolk, and the virgin sis- \nters, with the holy instincts of maternal love de- \ntached and in selfless purity, and not say to him- \nself, \xe2\x80\x94 Behold the shadow of approaching hu- \nmanity, the sun rising from behind in the kindling \nmorn of creation." Now that is very beautiful, \nis not it ? It makes me feel as the angels may \nhave done when they saw the young world round- \ning into beauty, and growing green and peopled, \nas they looked at it from time to time. It is as \nthough I had been one of the witnesses of the \ncreation ; and I am kindred to those sons of God \nwho did see it, as I know by my being able to \nfeel this way. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nKnow it so, Oliver ! how ? Though it is \npleasant to think on the stages in creation, im- \nproving one on another, till the last, but little \nlower than that of the angels. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nHow the world was once without form and \nvoid ; then how it w T as shaped by the rush of \nwater round it, and the bursting of fire from with- \nin it ; then how its bleak surface grew green with \n\n\n\n320 ET7THANASY. \n\nvegetation ; then how there sprung up vast trees ; \nand then, in the forests, how vast creatures began \nto move, and when their creeping race had died \nout, how a better and still a better kind of animals \nappeared, till at last man was made in the image \nof the Highest, \xe2\x80\x94 of God \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWith the earth given him to subdue, and every \nthing in it to use. And so it was for us the earth \nwas made, though at first it was only the pasture \nof cattle and the hunting-field of the lion. There \nwas progress in the creation from day to day, or \nrather in one order of creatures over the next \norder. And so we were the last, because we \nwere to be the highest. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAccording to an ascending scale of worth in \nthe creation. It is this delights the soul. First \nthere was made the kingdom of dead minerals, \nthen that of growing plants, then that of active \ncreatures, then that of reasoning activity ; and \nnow there are among us the beginnings of a new \ncreation in Christ Jesus. It is because of her \nsympathy with it, because of her own progressive \ncharacter, that my soul thrills to this. And just \nnow I felt as though I saw age beyond age, and \nheight above height, and glory beyond glory, for \nmy soul to pass into. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 321 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI believe in the soul\'s infinite progress, though \nI do not think it is to be expected from the man- \nner in which the world grew out of a void into \nwhat it now is. Because, if any thing at all is to \nbe inferred from that, it would be, I think, the \npossibility, some time, of some creatures being \nmade superior to ourselves. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO, no ! but the certainty of social progress, \nand therefore of individual improvement, and that \nfor ever, probably. It would be as you say, if \nman differed from the brutes only as they do from \ntrees, and as trees do from marble and iron. For \nthere is nothing in a mineral, which, at its best, \ncould ever become a plant, and vegetable or- \nganization perfected to the utmost would never \nmake an animal, and the instincts of all animals \nin one would not amount to reason. But reason \nitself is not to be spoken of so, for there is no \nhigh place to which it is not competent ; and \nwhile above us men there are angels and archan- \ngels, the difference between them and us is not in \nnature, but in degree, in what is possible to be \noutgrown. Yes ! there was progress in the geo- \nlogical ages, and it was from one to a higher kind \nof existence ; and now that progressiveness is in \nthe soul of man, and may be in it infinitely ; for, \nby the very nature of the spirit, there is no prin- \n21 \n\n\n\n322 EUTHANASY. \n\ncipality nor power up to the height of which it \nmay not grow ; and there is no great form, into \nthe fulness of which it may not spread ; and \nthere is no strength, to the possession of which it \nmay not get. By the image of God upon me, I \nam kindred to the whole family of God ; not only \nto poets, and saints, and prophets, but to angels, \nand to the cherubim and seraphim, and to the \ndwellers in the heaven of heavens. Since the \nbeginning, progression has been the law of the \nworld. Yes, and to me the recognition of this \ntruth feels like a troubled joy, and it turns with- \nin me to a prophecy of my own infinite des- \ntiny. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGod make us and keep us worthy of it ! The \nLord have us in his sight always ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMy being in the eye of God persuades me of \nmy immortality. For, I think, there cannot but \nbe an everlastingness in every purpose of an eter- \nnal God. My nature will never die out ; I will \nnot fear it will ; for no action of God\'s ever quite \nspends itself, and very probably nothing of his \ncreating will ever quite perish. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, Oliver ! you forget it is written expressly, \nthat this earth will be dissolved, and the firmament \nabove it. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 323 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut God is in the earth and will outlive it ; \nand no doubt all that is divine in creation is im- \nmortal. The earth will burn up, and the heavens \nbe on fire, and there will be a great void again ; \nand so, perhaps, space be made for the new heav- \nens and the new earth. But in us there will sur- \nvive a something of the former heavens and the \nearth that once was ; for always there will be in \nus feelings inspired by them. And our souls will \nbe sublime with the sublimity of perished moun- \ntains ; and they will be pure with the purity with \nwhich morning used to blush in the east ; and \nthey will be beautiful with the beauty with which \nevening lingered in the west ; and they will be \nlovely with the loveliness of moonlight among the \ntrees ; and they will be peaceful with the peace \ninto which, on summer evenings, nature often \nhushed herself. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou are not talking too much, Oliver, are you ? \nDo not tire yourself ; but do go on. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd the most perishable objects of nature be- \ncome immortal by having been ways or points \nthrough which man and God have touched, in \nspirit ; for spirit immortalizes all things. Ani- \nmals were created, the later their race, the bet- \nter, till at last man was made ; and now human \n\n\n\n324 EUTHANASY. \n\nages are improvements, one on another. But \nnow also, through man, other animals live to more \nspiritual purpose ; for man sees, and uses, and \nthinks of them. And as Bailey says, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll animals are living hieroglyphs. \n\nThe dashing dog, and stealthy-stepping cat, \n\nHawk, bull, and all that breathe, mean something more \n\nTo the true eye than their shapes show ; for all \n\nWere made in love, and made to be beloved. \n\nThe succession of the five vegetable creations \nwas that of superiority ; and now the last is itself \nprogressive, by its being of more and more use. \nA tree ripens and drops fruit, and so perhaps is \nthe support of some animal that comes under its \nboughs ; but it is of better use still, when the \nfruits of it are gathered by man ; but when the \nremembrance of the tree is to live in an immortal \nsoul, it is become another thing than what used \nto grow and rot in an unpeopled world. There \nwas a daisy ploughed up in a field at Ellisdale ; \nbut through Burns\'s address to it, it lives on and \nwill flourish for ever, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWee, modest, crimson-tipped flower. \n\nDead is it ? The earthiness of it is ; but not \nwhat was the daisy itself, nor even what likeness \nof his own fate the poet saw in its being ploughed \nup: \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch fate to suffering worth is given, \nWho long with wants and woes has striven, \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 325 \n\nBy human pride or cunning driven \n\nTo misery\'s brink, \n\nTill, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, \nHe, ruined, sink! \n\nAnd there is one sweet brier that will live as long \nas the English language, for through the love of \nWalter Savage Landor it has been spiritualized, \nand so become an everlasting. \n\nMy brier, that smelledst sweet \nWhen gentle spring\'s first heat \nRan through thy quiet veins. \n\nAnd, O ! in this manner, many are the flowers \nand trees that live a higher life than can be touch- \ned by frost or heat. And if I never were to see \na tree again, I could always feel the stillness and \nthe awe and the depth of an American forest ; \nfor there is a hymn of Bryant\'s, the saying of \nwhich brings great trees about me, and thick \nbranches over my head, and a feeling of being \nalone with God. The woods may disappear, but \nthe spirit of them never will now ; for it has been \nfelt by a poet, and we can feel for ever what he \nfelt, \xe2\x80\x94 how \n\nthe sacred influences \nThat from the stilly twilight of the place, \nAnd from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, \nMingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound \nOf the invisible breath that swayed at once \nAll their green tops, stole over him, and bowed \nHis spirit with the thought of boundless Power \nAnd inaccessible Majesty. \n\n\n\n326 EUTHANASY. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nO, but that is sublime ! It is what might have \nbeen felt in Lebanon, when it was holier than it \nis now. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd holier and sublimer all objects grow, with \nthe growing holiness of the beholders. Rivers \nthere are, the Yarrow, the Otter, the Severn, and \nothers, that make unearthly music in their rip- \nplings, since they have been sung of by Words- \nworth, and Coleridge, and Milton. And there \nare birds that died long ago, and yet that are liv- \ning on still, \xe2\x80\x94 the cuckoo of Logan\'s hearing, the \nstormy petrel and the horned owl of Barry Corn- \nwall\'s poems, and the skylark which the Ettrick \nShepherd heard singing, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n0, my love is bonny, and young, and chaste, \nAs sweetly she sits in her mossy nest ! \n\nAy, and to the last of life, there is that in nature \nwhich there are no words for, but which is to be \nfelt ; and in wild-flowers, there is what the spirit \nowns and is glad in. \n\nOnce I welcome you more, in life\'s passionless stage, \nWith the visions of youth to revisit my age, \n\nAnd I wish you to grow on my tomb. \n\nSo felt Campbell ; and so I feel, though I am \nnot old ; yes, I am ; for age is not years, but ex- \nperience and nearness to death. O, I had for- \ngotten Shelley\'s poem on the Sensitive Plant ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 327 \n\nIt is a wonderful poem. In the beginning of it \nthere are flowers, \xe2\x80\x94 a garden full of them, that \nwill live for ever. I have now blossoms in my \neye, but they will be withered to-morrow ; but \nin my mind\'s eye, I have flowers that Shelley \nhas shown me, and that are unfading. And why \nare they ? Because some little the meaning of \nthem \xe2\x80\x94 what is, as it were, the soul of them \xe2\x80\x94 \nhas been shown to my soul. There is the lily, \nand there is the hyacinth, \n\nAnd the rose, like a nymph to the hath addrest, \nWhich unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, \nTill, fold after fold, to the fainting air \nThe soul of her beauty and love lay bare. \n\nBut O the last part of the poem ! It is autumn \nto read it. All through the verses, one feels and \nbreathes September, \xe2\x80\x94 yellow, and moist, and \ndecaying, and thoughtful ; yes, and even the air \nof an autumn day is to be felt, \xe2\x80\x94 the moisture of \nit on the skin, but also and for ever the spirit of \nit in the mind. And so through the immortality \nof man there is an everlasting purpose even in na- \nture. Forests may vanish, but the awfulness of \ntheir depths will be in my spirit for ever ; the sea \nmay be dried up from the earth, but never out of \nmy memory ; and to all eternity there will be in \nme what has come of the storms I have heard, \nand the midnights I have felt, and the brook-sides \nI have lain upon. But, uncle \n\n\n\n328 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI will not interrupt you, Oliver. I was only \ngoing to refer to what St. Paul says about all \nthings being discernible by the spiritual man. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, by the spirit there is a spirit discernible \nin all things ; and if I am spiritual, then the world \nis a revelation of God to me ; and there is a \nspirit looks in upon my spirit from out of the sky, \nand the earth, and the sea, from out of the sun \nand the moon, and from out of the rose. It is \nfor the sake of what we men feel in nature, and \nfrom it, that this earth has been made. And I \nhave no doubt that there are beings purer than \nwe, who would feel this world round them like a \nDivine presence, and who would, as it were, see \nthe face of God in every direction they could \nlook ; so wise and beautiful and good all things \nare really, and so expressively so. Sometimes, \nafter I have been praying, a landscape has seem- \ned to me something so unspeakable, and what I \nhave yearned towards, as though I were being \ndrawn into the bosom of the Father. This re- \nligiousness of nature, \xe2\x80\x94 how easily and touchingly \ndoes Jesus bring it out ! We are with him in \nGalilee, and we are anxious about ourselves ; so \nthe Master points to the tall, golden flowers about, \nand says to us, "Consider the lilies, how they \ngrow ; they toil not, neither do they spin : and \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 329 \n\nyet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his \nglory was not arrayed like one of these. Where- \nfore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which \nto-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, \nshall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little \nfaith ? " There they fly, a cloud of birds ; and \nnot one of them shall fall to the ground without \nour Father, \xe2\x80\x94 not one sparrow shall. And we, \n\xe2\x80\x94 we are of infinitely more value than many such. \nWhy, then, are we so fearful, as though there were \nno one to care for us, \xe2\x80\x94 as though God did not. \nHark ! again the Master speaks ; and we look \nup, as he points, and he says, " Behold the fowls \nof the air, for they sow not, neither do they reap, \nnor gather into barns ; yet your Heavenly Father \nfeedeth them. Are ye not, much better than \nthey ? " Behold the fowls of the air ! Is not it \nas though they were in the air there still ? Is not \nit as though they had outlived eighteen hundred \nyears ? And so they have, in a sense. For \nthrough Christ\'s looking at them, they became \nChristian thoughts ; and they have grown eternal, \nthrough his having felt what a lesson of Provi- \ndence they were. Spirit as they were at first ; \nhow all things tend to become spiritual ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou mean, Oliver, do not you, that \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThis earth was a Divine idea before it was a \n\n\n\n330 EUTHANASY. \n\nglobe ; and before becoming earthly shapes, \nwoods and flowers, hills and rivers and oceans, \nwere thoughts in the mind of God ; and the laws \nof the seasons were intentions in it ; and that \ngoodness which God saw in all things on his \nmaking them was what had been a feeling within \nhimself, first of all. Before being made, all \nthings that we see were Divine thoughts ; and \nnow they are thoughts in our minds, and will be \nfor ever, though as objects they will themselves \nperish. In this manner does God give himself to \nus, \xe2\x80\x94 impart knowledge to us, and inspire us \nwith feeling. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nYour ideas are new to me, Oliver ; but I like \nthem very much. They make the world feel \nwhat I cannot express. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nLike the bosom of a mother, whose spirit we \nhave grown into, and in whose arms we can die \ncheerfully and full of hope. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo God grant we may. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe world God cannot have made in vain, nor \nany parts of it, neither clouds, mountains, seas, \nnor flowers. It is as a book for us men to read \nin, that nature is not in vain. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 331 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou mean that God would not have made the \nworld, but for the human race to live in. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, I think so, uncle ; and I mean, that, as \nthe world itself is not eternal, therefore we our- \nselves must be. The Infinite must have an in- \nfinite end in what he does. And in the making \nof this world, we human beings are the infinity. \nIt is our souls which are the everlastingness of \nGod\'s purpose in this earth. And so we must \nbe, \xe2\x80\x94 we are, immortal. \n\n\n\n332 ET7THANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX. \n\nThen woke \nStirrings of deep Divinity within, \nAnd, like the Bickerings of a smouldering flame, \nYearnings of a hereafter. Thou it was, \n"When the world\'s din and passion\'s voice was still, \nCalling thy wanderer home. \xe2\x80\x94 "Williams. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nShall I shut the window, uncle ? \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nNot for me, Oliver ; for it is quite warm this \nafternoon, though the heat of the season is over \nnow, I think. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOn the hedges, what fresh leaves come out are \npale and hardly green. And as you stand under \nthe elms, the inner leaves are turned yellow. \nAnd see in the air, and hanging among the trees, \nthere is that blue mist that is so peculiar to the \nlatter weeks of August. How still it is ! Even \non the poplar, the leaves hang without one stir- \nring. There is not the least wind. It is as \nthough every thing in nature were hushed and still, \nto see summer and autumn meet, and part again \nalmost as soon as met. There is this meeting of \nthe seasons at every vine, and under every apple, \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 333 \n\nand peach, and plum tree. And summer looks at \nthe fruits with her large, glowing eyes, and says, \n" All these are my ripening " ; and then autumn \nclaps her hands and cries, " But my gathering ! \nthey are for me to gather." And for a few days \nthey dwell in the woods together. At first, au- \ntumn has only one or two yellow trees to sit in ; \nbut every day she gets more and more, till, at last, \nsummer has only an oak-tree left her for a throne. \nThen comes a misty morning, and the oak is not \ngreen any longer ; and summer is quite gone, and \nthe whole world is autumn\'s. And she, \xe2\x80\x94 as fast \nas she gets, she loses it ; and scarcely is summer \nvanished, before autumn is gone too. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd such is life, \xe2\x80\x94 an appearance for a little \ntime, and hardly for that, it is so vanishing. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nPromise, \xe2\x80\x94 promises from day to day, \xe2\x80\x94 a rep- \netition of promises ; this is what life feels to me. \nIt is going, - \xe2\x80\x94 the summer is. O the woods and \nthe hill-sides, the meadows and the gardens, \nthe valley with the river in it, summer morning \nwith its long shadows in the moist grass, and \nsummer evening going away in the west, calm \nand sublime, like the last words of a blessing ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nO, in all these things, the beauty there has \nbeen, \xe2\x80\x94 what has it been, and what is it now ? \nIt is God ; and so it is what my soul will be \n\n\n\n334 EUTHANASY. \n\nliving in for ever, very soon. As I sat here and \nlooked at this beautiful scene, \xe2\x80\x94 and yet it was \nrather as though it were looking into me, than I \nat it, \xe2\x80\x94 there was a persuasion in me which said, \n" This, this wast thou made for." And now I \nknow something of how a soul may gaze upon \nGod, and think of nothing else, and want nothing \nmore for ages ; because the reflection of the \nface of God may be, in the depths of the soul, a \njoy everlasting ; and will be, for all other delights \nwill but make God the dearer, and all other \nknowledge will but clear our spirits to know him \nthe better. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is a great pleasure, Oliver, to listen to your \nanticipations of the future life ; but I cannot quite \nfeel as you do, for hope is not certainty. Though \nsometimes, while hearing you talk, I could forget \nthat there are such things as hell and reprobation. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so could become a perfect Christian. \nDo you wonder at me, uncle ? Well, I do be- \nlieve there is a hell ; but I am not frightened at \nits existence, for it is not outside and beyond the \ndominions of God. Even hell is not so utterly \nunblest as not to be known to God. Painful is \nit ? So is this earth very often ; and yet there \nhas grown in me here such faith as that, to my \neyes, hell itself would not be without a look of \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\nbeauty, if the Divine hand pointed me into it. \xe2\x80\x94 \nto go into it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere is a perfect love which casts out fear ; \nthat is certain ; for so St. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd certain it is, that we might and ought to \nfeel it, as well as St. Paul. Apostle was he ? \nSo he was, and chief of sinners once. Religion \nis not hopeful enough, and I do not know that it \never has been in Protestant times ; presumptuous \nit has been too often, but very seldom hopeful. \nAnd yet Christians are saved by hope, as St. \nPaul says. Yes, hope is light, and strength, and \npeace, and virtue, and salvation. And let a soul \nbe Christian, be a new creature in Christ, and \nthen it can get for itself high, grand evidence out \nof hope. A life to come we hope for, and so we \nshall see it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI trust so. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI could be sure so, if it were only because I \ncan hope it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSure of a thing because you hope it ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, though you smile at the notion. \nFor how have we come by hope ? Have angels \n\n\n\n336 EUTHANASY. \n\nvisited us all, one by one, and endowed us with \nthe feeling ? Or were we despairers once, and \ndid we through some magic get ourselves made \nhopeful ? Has hopefulness come of any forbidden \ntree that we have eaten of ? No, no ! It is our \nnature. And through making us hope for immor- \ntality, God has made us a promise of it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut it is not to be thought that all things will \nbe ours, because we hope them. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, not all things, and not many things ; and \ntherefore certainly that one. I might hope that \nVenus might be the first world for me to live in \nafter death ; I might hope for some one particular \nstar to be my throne ; and in such things as those, \nhope would not even be expectation, and still less \nwould it be certainty. When we trust in the fu- \nture, what hopefulness is in us is the inspiration of \nGod ; but what particular objects we wish are \nfixed on, perhaps, by our self-will. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is a wise distinction, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHope is an instinct of there being infinite good \nin our destiny ; now, as that good is not earthly, \nit must be heavenly ; and so, if faith is the evi- \ndence of things not seen, hope is the certainty of \nthem. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 337 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAs being an inspiration and promise of God in \nus, you mean. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes. For promise of God to us it is. And \nso I think that, in life, not to be cheerful is to \nblaspheme against God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHope is more of a virtue than is often thought, \nand it is perhaps only not the greatest ; for St. \nPaul counts hope along with faith and love. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are many evils which are more than half \ncured by hope. Hope brings good things about \nus, not so as to be handled, but so as to be \nowned and rejoiced in. Hope prophesies to us. \nHope makes us free of the universe. I am a \npilgrim, and life is what I have to travel over ; \nand, O ! I have many dangers and many wants ; \nbut hope is my all in all, nearly. Hope is light, \nand courage, and a staff; and when I sit down, it \nis a friend to talk with ; and when I suffer, it is an \nangel to stand by and strengthen me ; and when I \nhave wandered away in sin, and repented and re- \nturned to the right path, then from hope I get my \npeace of mind again, and newness of virtue. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHope renews you in virtue, do you say ? \n\n22 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \nAUBIN. \n\nYes, because hoping for goodness is all but \ngetting it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd then the longing of the soul would be \nlong, long misery, but for hope. O, how my \nsoul used to yearn after I could not tell what ! \nStrange feeling it was ! Sorrow, joy, love, wor- \nship, \xe2\x80\x94 it was all these, \xe2\x80\x94 an infinite longing. It \nwas what would have felt wealth like poverty, and \nwhat no sceptre would have pleased, \xe2\x80\x94 a longing, \nan infinite longing, to which the whole world felt \nlittle and nothing. I used to think it was discon- \ntentment, and yet I could not tell how it could be. \nBut now I know it was not. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is the way youth often feels. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd rightly ; for that feeling is no discontent, \nbut it is the soul prophesying to herself her great- \nness that is to be. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut almost always this feeling dies away. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nDie away it does not, though too commonly it \nis quenched ; but it is not the less natural for that, \nnor the less meaning. For if this sublime yearn- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 339 \n\ning of the spirit is often quenched, so is con- \nscience, so is love, and so is reverence. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd quite as often, perhaps ; for of these \naffections, there is in multitudes a much greater \nseeming than life. O, but it is sad to think how \nmany souls I have known grow torpid ! In youth, \nthey were loving, and thoughtful, and devout. \nEvery great and beautiful truth was welcome to \nthem, and their souls \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWere like homes of the Holy Spirit, perhaps ? \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAlmost as open, and clean, and cheerful, as \nthough they were. But now they are the lurking- \nplaces of cunning, and the dwelling-places of \nselfishness and pride. O, how the soul can allow \nherself to be darkened and polluted ! It comes \nof her false service. For there is the world \nabout her, and she worships some things in it with \npowers that ought only to have God for their \nobject. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, and this youthful yearning of the spirit is \nan earnestness, which often the man uses for self- \nish purposes. And so through this feeling, that \nought to have made him free of the world, he \nbecomes its slave. This yearning in him he \nthinks to gratify with money, or luxury, or fame ; \n\n\n\n340 EUTHANASY. \n\nbut he cannot. More, more, \xe2\x80\x94 it wants more ; \nit wants more than the whole world. And so, \nwith all his gains, the man but gets the more cov- \netous, and not the more contented. For this \ncraving of his soul has in it a something infinite, \nand is not for the ownership of the earth at all, \nbut for the beauty of it, and what there is of God \nin it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI think your explanation of the feeling is right ; \nbut why does it rise in youth first, for in childhood \nit is not felt ? \n\nATTBIN. \n\nBecause it is not till childhood is over, that \nthe soul is a soul, \xe2\x80\x94 grown, I mean, into any \nknowledge of itself or its wants. O, I remem- \nber, at first, what a mystery this infinite want in \nme was ! Sublime, and sad, and loving, \xe2\x80\x94 it was \nso strange ! It tortured me, because I thought it \nwas a fault ; but now it does not, for I know its \nmeaning. It is my soul, that is come of age, \nmaking her claim upon the infinite in her right as \na child of God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHark ! Yes, it is the clock striking. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nFrom over every town, east to west, the \nclocks are striking the hour. One, two, three, \nfour, five, six ! And the Christian meaning of \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 341 \n\nthe sound is, " Thus far on through Time." \nAnd the hopeful thought it makes in us is, " And \nso much nigher to Eternity and Heaven." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo we will hope. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd out of pure hearts, confidence in the future \ncannot be too great. Because, what is hope ? \nIt is what is most worthy of belief, by its very \nnature. For in hoping rightly, all that is best in \nus yearns together for the infinite, \xe2\x80\x94 love and \nreverence, and conscience, and the feeling of the \nbeautiful. \n\n\n\n342 euthanasy. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX. \n\n\n\nThe wave that dances to the breast \n\nOf earth can ne\'er be staved; \nThe star that glitters in the crest \n\nOf morning needs must fade. \n\nBut there shall flow another tide, \n\nSo let me hope, and far \nOver the outstretched waters wide \n\nShall shine another star. \n\nIn every change of man\'s estate \n\nAre lights and guides allowed ; \nThe fiery pillar will not wait. \n\nBut. parting, sends the cloud. \n\nNor mourn I the less manly part \n\nOf life to leave behind ; \nMy loss is but the lighter heart. \n\nMy gain, the graver mind. \xe2\x80\x94 Henry Taylor. \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nDeath, \xe2\x80\x94 the Greeks were afraid of the very \nword ; they would not use it if they could help \nit ; nor would the Romans, though less sensitive. \nAud we, \xe2\x80\x94 we Christians speak it like an un- \nnatural word. And yet the thing itself, when it \nhappens, will be quite a matter of course ; and \nfor us Christians, there will be no sting in it ; and \nall the bitterness of it will be found to have been \ndrunk by us long ago. For our life is an act of \ndying ; and we die just as fast as we live. The \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 343 \n\npleasures of boyhood, holidays and half-holidays, \nclimbing trees, rolling down green hill-sides, look- \ning for birdsnests, playing with snow, chasing one \nanother, especially in the twilight, sporting in the \nwater, and swimming, \xe2\x80\x94 all this I have been dead \nto long, long. Many a purpose of station and \nfame, that was once life of my life, I am dead to. \nEvery month I die to some old object, or hope, \nor delight ; and every midnight do I die to a yes- \nterday. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAy, in the midst of life we are in death ; we \nare ; and it is most true. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut not most melancholy, nor as much so as \nyour tone, uncle. For if life is so very like \ndeath, then death cannot be so very unlike life. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat is that ? how is that ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is quite a triumph, is not it? \xe2\x80\x94 detecting \nthe nothingness of death, this way. I will show \nyou how it is. Our daily death \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, Oliver, what an expression, \xe2\x80\x94 our daily \ndeath ! But it is a true one. And if we lived \nin the feeling of it, we should not be afraid of \ndeath long. If only men did die daily, then they \nwould not die at all. But this they will not do. \n\n\n\n344 EUTHANASY. \n\nBut yet, whether we think it or not, we become \ndead to many and many an object. This is our \nmortality. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd no such very sad thing. You cannot leap \nover gates, and across ditches, and up to the \nboughs of trees, as you used to do. It is no time \nwith you now to undress yourself on the bank of \na river and jump into it, careless about the depth ; \nyou cannot run a mile in seven minutes \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo, I am sure I cannot. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nWell, but do you want to do it, or any of those \nother things ? No, you do not, \xe2\x80\x94 no more than \nyou covet a condor\'s wings, or Nero\'s old pal- \nace, or Samson\'s strength, or any other impos- \nsibility. Then where is the grief, or any reason \nfor it ? Grievous it would be, very, if there were \nan impulse in you to run eight miles an hour, and \nyou could not achieve four ; or if, at sight of \na gate, you always wished to leap over it and \ncould not. But as you do not wish any of these \nboyish things, inability to do them is nothing to \nlament. The sorrow, if there is any, is in your \nhaving grown not to care about what were the \npleasures of your childhood, and some of your \nyouthful objects. Now there are those to whom \nboyish sports are a delight at fifty years of age, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 345 \n\nmen who are happy for hours together in blowing \nsoap-bubbles, and chasing butterflies. But then \nwho are they ? \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nPoor idiots, certainly. But there are things of \nquite another class from what you have mention- \ned, which you and I have become uninterested in. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHave grown indifferent to. And grown into \nthis indifference we have, and not decayed into \nit. Many childish delights, and many youthful \njoys, a man has no pleasure in ; for he has grown \nthoughtful, and so in thoughtless things he is no \nlonger pleased. And is this, then, melancholy ? \nNo, uncle, no ! I am free of the hall where the \nMuses live. They talk to me divinely about \nthe arts and sciences, about what the ages were \nthat are past, and about what the ages to come \nwill be like. One Muse thrills me with her \nvoice, in singing, and then one of her sisters en- \ntrances me with music, and from time to time \nthey give me nectar to drink. Mortal as I am, \nI drink the drink of immortals. This is what \nI do, and often. So that it is no decay of \nnature, when I am out in the fields, if I am not \neager after wild fruits, like a boy. Childish \ngames have no interest for us now ; but it is be- \ncause of our interest in life, \xe2\x80\x94 the great game of \nthe passions. Many things I do not feel about \n\n\n\n346 EUTHANASF. \n\nas I did at fifteen ; but it is because since then I \nhave thought the same things as John Milton, and \nsat under a tree with Plato and his friends, and \nheard them discourse together. True, the earth \nis not to me what it was. It is no broad play- \nground now ; but it is something better still, for \nit feels under my feet like the floor of a temple \nnot made with hands. Fellow-creatures met by \nchance I cannot now be merry with for an hour, \nand then miss for ever without caring ; but this \nis because between me and God the fleshly veil \nis worn so thin that light shines through, and \nsouls look solemn in it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGo on, Oliver. You have more to say, have \nnot you ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are youthful pleasures an old man has \nno relish for ; and this grieves him for other rea- \nsons than I have said, perhaps. He, \xe2\x80\x94 I may say \nyou, \xe2\x80\x94 you remember, uncle, your sports as a \nlittle child. They would be no pleasure to you \nnow, if you were to try them, \xe2\x80\x94 that you know ; \nand so perhaps you are pained, as though you \nhad lost some old and happy feelings by time\'s \nhaving changed your nature. But it is not so. \nAs an old man, your soul is not of another kind, \nbut only greater than it was when you used to \nclasp your mother\'s knees. There is no inno- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 347 \n\ncent happiness that a man ever grows strange to. \nYou do not incline to bowl a hoop yourself ; but \nin showing little Arthur how to do it this morn- \ning, and in watching him, and walking after him, \nand now and then touching the hoop yourself, I \nvery much mistook appearances, if you were not \nquite as much delighted as the child. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo I was, \xe2\x80\x94 that I was, good little fellow ! \nHe is a wonderfully quick child ; is not he ? \n\nATJBIN. \n\nVery ; and very good-tempered. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAy, he begged me to promise him another les- \nson to-morrow, which I did ; and you must come \nand help. But, running after little Arthur\'s hoop, \nI have got away from your line of argument ; but \nit was you who started me. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo it was ; and I have seen that you delight \nin a hoop now as much as you ever did ; only it \nis through the fingers of your grandson. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou have me, you have me, \xe2\x80\x94 you have the \nold man ! \n\nATTBIN. \n\nNo, I have not, \xe2\x80\x94 not the old man. Your \nbody may be old, but you yourself, \xe2\x80\x94 your spirit \nis as young as it ever was ; it is both old and \n\n\n\n348 ETITHANASY. \n\nyoung. When a person is said to be twenty, or \nforty, or sixty, what is meant ? This chiefly, \nthat he has the feelings of those years. O, beau- \ntiful is what old age is sometimes, and nearly al- \nways might be, \xe2\x80\x94 the last years of a Christian, a \nman who has lived in the use of his best feelings, \nwho has worshipped God as heartily as he has \nloved his dearest friend, and who has loved every \none of his neighbours like himself! \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nThe recollections of such a man are a happi- \nness to have. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAlways through his sympathies he can delight \nhimself, and be growing in goodness. There is \nhis youngest son, in love with a sweet lady ; and \nthrough his child he himself loves again like a \nyouth. Here is an infant comes to him and holds \nhim by the hand, and he speaks to the little crea- \nture ; and because he talks with it lovingly, his \nown heart in his breast grows young again. \nPlough he cannot, nor sow, nor attend to farm- \ning in any way ; but he can, and does, love his \nneighbour as himself ; and so in the fields close \nby, the growing crops are a great interest to him ; \nand down in the meadows by the river-side, the \ngrass refreshes his eyes, it is so green ; and its \nbeing so rich delights him on the owner\'s account. \nIt is so, uncle, is not it ? It is so with you, I \nmean. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 349 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDo you think so, Oliver ? Well, perhaps it is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAn old man may have ill-health, but so has a \nyoung man. And very beautiful in its season \nold age often is, \xe2\x80\x94 the last state of a man who is \nwise in life, having lived it all ; who loves God \nand man, and man the more reverently because \nof God\'s loving him. And he is a man, too, \nwhose heart is open to all his fellow- creatures, \nand kept open by the force of the prayers that \ncome out of it, for his family, and friends, and all \nmen. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is \xe2\x80\x94 it is \xe2\x80\x94 it is prayer is the life of the soul. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe oak-tree in the middle of yonder field is \nan emblem of a good old man. There it stands, \nthe growth of many, many years ; inside it is the \nlittle stalk which opened out of an acorn, and the \nsapling which for years used to bend backward \nand forward with the wind ; and in its trunk are \nwhat were its outside rings at twenty, fifty, and \na hundred years old. It stands aloft now, a full \ngrown oak, \xe2\x80\x94 an object beautiful to look at, and \nthat is wisdom to think of. Once that tree might \nhave perished by any one of a hundred accidents, \n\xe2\x80\x94 by a careless foot, or a drought, or a snail, or \na hungry sheep. But it was to grow to what it is. \n\n\n\n350 EUTHANASY. \n\nIn the shade of it the cattle lie ; in its leafy arms \nbirds build their nests and sing ; among its branch- \nes the wind gets itself a voice ; somewhere in it \nthe squirrel has a home, and all over the boughs \nare growing what will be his winter\'s store. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut what is the likeness between this tree and \nold age ? \n\nATTBIN. \n\nJust as in the middle of that oak there is the \nsapling of two hundred years ago, in a good old \nman there is the heart of his childhood. An aged \nChristian is not an old man only ; he is of all \nages ; for he has in him the heart of a little child, \nand a boy\'s way of thinking, and the feelings of a \nyouth, and the judgment of a man ; he has in him \na son\'s fondness, a husband\'s tender affection, \nand a father\'s love ; and confidence, esteem, en- \nthusiasm, \xe2\x80\x94 all that is best in our nature is strong \nin him ; for though many of his dear objects are \ntaken hence, his feelings for them are the same \nas ever. And through his ready sympathy, there \nis no love in the house that he does not thrill to, \nand no joy in parlour or kitchen that he does not \nrejoice in, and no hope in any inmate\'s bosom \nthat he does not hope in. And if his neighbours \nprosper around him, or grow more virtuous, it \nis to his feeling as though he were himself the \nbetter. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 351 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI like to hear you, Oliver ; go on. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOutgrow much, no doubt, old age does. But \nmind, \xe2\x80\x94 it outgrows some things, but it does not \ndwindle down from any. And besides that, its \nway of growth is the same as what makes little \nchildren be such as the kingdom of heaven is of. \nFor always out of the heart are the issues of life. \nYonder oak is no longer an acorn moistening just \nunder the ground ; nor a little plant in the turf, \nkept from scorching by the tall grass ; still, high \nas its top is, and wide as it spreads, the tree \nflourishes in the same way the sapling grew ; and \nits roots are under the grass, and are kept moist \nby it ; yes, and the heart of the oak \xe2\x80\x94 the very \nmiddle of it \xe2\x80\x94 is just over the spot where the \nacorn opened. Old age grows up to the height \nof thoughts not of this world ; but then its roots \nare the same as ever, \xe2\x80\x94 its sympathies do not \nfail it, and the dews of heavenly grace are never \nwithheld from falling on it. It is always autumnal, \nbut then it is always shedding ripe fruits ; and even \nthe look of it is what every beholder is the better \nfor feeling. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, if I thought the tree of my own old age like \nthat, I should sit under it in peace, and, perhaps, \n\xe2\x80\x94 ay, perhaps with pride. For pride is a weed \n\n\n\n352 EUTHANASY. \n\nthat will grow in shade as well as sunshine, in \nstreets, and houses, and upon tombs, and every- \nwhere. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThat is one of the fruits of your wisdom, my \ndear uncle. Excuse my interrupting you, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI am old, Oliver, but I am happy ; and I ought \nto be happier than I am. God pardon me for not \nbeing so ! Few old people have such comforts \nas I have ; and how desolate many of them are, \n\xe2\x80\x94 childless, friendless, and infirm ! I am sure, \noften I am wretched, when I think what their \nfeelings must be. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThose feelings, as far as they cannot be eased \nby man, are meant by God, and therefore meant \nfor good. And then they can pray \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, they can, they can ! There is no burden \nof the spirit but is lightened by kneeling under it. \nLittle by little, the bitterest feelings are sweetened \nby the mention of them in prayer. And agony \nitself stops swelling, if it can only cry sincerely, \nMy God, my God ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere is a degree of distress, in which all hu- \nman anodynes fail, and friendly words fail, and the \nbest of reading fails ; but prayer never fails. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 353 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNever, \xe2\x80\x94 never, \xe2\x80\x94 never. But still, to look \nat a bereaved and joyless old man is a melan- \ncholy sight. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nVery melancholy ; because a quite joyless \nmust be a quite unchristian man. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou do not understand me, Oliver. What I \nmean is, that it is distressing to see a man spend \nyears, as Solomon says so touchingly, which have \nno pleasure in them. It is as though it were out \nof the course of nature. No, that is not what \nI mean. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI know w 7 hat you feel exactly. And now I \nwill tell you what I feel. I see an old man, a \nwidower, perhaps, bereaved of his children, very \nweak, and almost sleepless. In the cup of life, \nthere are only a few dregs for his drinking. It is \nso. And what then ? Why, the cup will be the \nsooner ready for him to dip in the living foun- \ntains of water, which the Lamb from the midst of \nthe throne will lead him to. Courage, thou poor \nsufferer ! No, not poor, \xe2\x80\x94 but happy I ought \nto have said. For in thy face there is what an- \nswers to something in another world. Yes, good \nold man ! It is as though it were known to thee, \nby some instinct, that Christ is just about rising \n23 \n\n\n\n354 EUTHANASY. \n\nfrom his throne to say, " Come, thou blessed of \nmy Father." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAmen, Lord Jesus, amen ! \n\nATTBIN. \n\nWhom the Lord loves, he chastens. But \nwhen a sufferer is chastened toward the end of \nlife, and, indeed, till the very end of his mortal \nlife, it is because God loves him immortally. It \nmust be, and it cannot be otherwise. No ! it \ncannot be any other way than that. So that my \npain, \xe2\x80\x94 what little I have, \xe2\x80\x94 my pain shall be \ncounted all joy. And I will reckon it so. And \ncannot I easily ? I ought to do, if I only recol- \nlect myself a little. Why should I ever have \nbeen so impatient for happiness ? Why should I \nwish for more than I have now ? Am I afraid \nof my share being given away ? Cannot I wait \nawhile ? Thousands of years I had to wait be- \nfore being born ; so that to wait a short while be- \nfore being blessed is a very little thing, \xe2\x80\x94 very. \nAy, ages on ages the stars had been twinkling \nby night, and the sun shining by day, before my \nreason was lighted up. And as yet I have it only \nin an earthen vessel, \xe2\x80\x94 a lamp of crumbling dust, \nthat is wearing away fast. Well, let it wear \naway. For when the flame in it escapes, it will \nbecome fire before the Lord ; and it will be like \na light set in a golden candlestick for ever ; and \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 355 \n\nit will be mine, \xe2\x80\x94 mine everlastingly. And it \nwill nowhere be eclipsed, \xe2\x80\x94 no! not among the \nradiances of the angels ; for it will have from my \nlife a color of its own ; and from God it will \nhave a beauty of its own, and a glory of its own. \nWonderful, very wonderful, this is, and yet it is \ncertain, that, from among all the inhabitants of this \nearth, no two minds are similar altogether. And \nat the end of the world, of all the souls native to \nit, there will be no two alike. Every one of us \nwill have a character of his own ; and every saint \nwill have a glory of his own. And myself, what \nI am to be, I am becoming. Yes, what I am to \nbe everlastingly, I am growing to be now, \xe2\x80\x94 now, \nin this present time so little thought of, \xe2\x80\x94 this \ntime which the sun rises and sets in, and the \nclock strikes in, and I wake and sleep in. Cour- \nage, then ! For what goes on in my spirit now \nwill show itself ages hence. They could never \nbe to another person \xe2\x80\x94 my pains and thoughts \xe2\x80\x94 \nwhat they are to me, \xe2\x80\x94 not exactly. What I \nshall be in eternity, I shall be by my endurance \nnow and my hopefulness. My trials I might bear \nwith murmurs, and so I should get to doubt God ; \nor by hardening my heart against the feeling of \nthem, and so I should become a stoic ; or by \nfiercely defying fate, and so I should grow athe- \nistical. But I endeavour to suffer Christianly. \nWhat I am to be hereafter, I must be becoming \n\n\n\n356 EUTHANASY. \n\nnow ; and so I am, indeed. For, day by day, I \nam growing fixedly into the attitude which I bear \nmy sorrows in ; and from under them, my look \nheavenwards, whatever it is, is becoming eternal \nwith me. And then it is not as though any trouble \ncould be spared me, and I not be other than what \nI am to be. O my destiny ! God keep me \ngrowing towards it ! My crown of glory ! Lord, \nmake me worthy of it ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFor some time I have not been able to catch \nall your words, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI thought some time I might be going into a \nfurnace of affliction, and I was talking with my- \nself about it. And I was saying, " Body ! thou \nmust burn away here, and for thee there is no \nhelp possible. But, soul ! out of this furnace, \nthis straitened and fiery place, thou shalt es- \ncape, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd thou shalt walk in soft, white light, with kings and priests \n\nahroad, \nAnd thou shalt summer high in bliss upon the hills of God." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhose lines are those ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThey are Thomas Aird\'s, and a beautiful \ncouplet. I often say them to myself ; and al- \nways when I do, it is as though it were an August \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 357 \n\nafternoon, and I had lived for ages, while my \nspirit in me feels so calm, yet earnest, and as \nthough it were growing into great thoughts. Yes ! \nand what is there I may not hope for ? For I am \nlike Melchisedek of old ; and I am king and priest \nboth ; for so to God Christ has made me be. \nPrayer is the sacrifice I have to offer ; and morn- \ning and evening, day and night, it is welcome, for \nthe Father seeks to have it. My passions are \nthe subjects of my kingly rule, and my throne is \nthe Gospel ; and from the height of it I judge the \nmen, and things, and the affairs about me. My \nsoul, my soul ! be thou faithful in judgment, and \nthou shalt grow up to the companionship of King \nAlfred, and St. Louis, and George Washington. \n\nAnd thou shalt walk in soft, white light, with kings and priests \n\nabroad, \nAnd thou shalt summer high in bliss upon the hills of God. \n\n\n\n358 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. \n\nTransition into the divine is ever woful, yet it is life. \n\nBettina Arnim. \n\nHe that lives fourscore years is but like one \n\nThat stays here for a friend : when death comes, then \n\nAway he goes, and is ne\'er seen again. \xe2\x80\x94 Thomas Middleton. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI have been thinking, Oliver, of what we \ntalked about yesterday. What you said has done \nme good, though I wish I could remember it \nbetter. My memory is not what it was, I think. \nWell, I must be patient. I am an old man, and \nso patience ought to be my special business. \nThere is not much else for me ; there is no work \nfor me in the world. My share in life I have \nhad, and there is no further part for me in the \nstruggles and successes of it. Now I have to \nstudy to be quiet, and wait for my dismissal \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYour admission, uncle. And it is a sublime \nwaiting. Blackly the gates of the grave frown \nagainst us, outside them ; but from the inside they \nwill be beautiful, for they will be seen through \nlight that is not of the sun, nor the moon, but \nolder ; yes, and newer, too, for what is eternal is \nalways young. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 359 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMore trust is what I want. But it will grow \nin me, perhaps, with the patience that old age \nforces. For I must be patient ; and more and \nmore I shall have to be. For with an old man \nfriends die fast, hopes come to nothing, the world \nlessens in interest, and things that were once a \npassion are not cared about. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIs it beginning to be so with you, uncle ? \nThen why is it ? There is an answer, and a \nhappy one. It is because you are growing up to \na higher order of things than what are of this \nearth. For what this world has to teach you, \nyou have learned. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, no, no ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAll the wisdom and freshness of the world you \nhave not exhausted. But what each man\'s na- \nture is capable of is commonly imbibed in three- \nscore years and ten, though perhaps an angel \nmight profit in this world for ages ; just as a \ndaisy is perfect with one year\'s growth, while \nin the same soil an oak will be deepening with \nits roots, and rising with its head, for two cen- \nturies or more. Do you feel as though you \nmight some time, perhaps, be weary of life, \xe2\x80\x94 \nbe thinking that there is nothing new in it, and \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\nno more to be known from it ? Weary of it you \nwill never be, uncle, for you will be patient, and \nalways you will think that life, even as endurance \nonly, will prove to be a privilege, and a rare one, \nperhaps ; for they are not many who live to ex- \nercise the patience of fourscore years. The pa- \ntience of eighty years did I say ? I ought to \nhave said the blessedness of them ; for with a \nGod to be glad in, the believing soul must always \nbe happy, or else be just about being the happier \nfor suffering. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, and so I hope for more faith than I have. \nI want it. In my last days, I fear feeling to have \nno pleasure in them ; for it ought not to be so \nwith me, as a Christian. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNor will it be, if you keep looking for the great \nhope, and the appearing of our Lord Jesus Christ. \nChildhood, youth, manhood, marriage, friendship, \ntrading, study, pleasure, and sorrow, \xe2\x80\x94 you have \ngot the good of them all ; and some of them you \nmight have tired of, if they had lasted with you \nlong, but now they feel like the first lessons in- \ntroductory to a wondrous book that has to be \nopened yet. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, the very thought an old man ought to wait \nwith ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 361 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nFeelings and motives in hearts of flesh you \nknow the working of, various as it may be ; so \nnow you are ready for the knowledge of souls in \nsome other than this fleshly estate. In the hum \nof the town that is near us, a youth hears what \ninspirits him ; but you do not, for you have heard \nit so long. And your heart, as it gets purer, \ncraves a holiness that is not of this world ; and so \nthe city of God is the easier for you to see with \nyour eyes of faith ; and the less you are of this \nworld, the more plainly are the voices to be heard \nwhich call to you from above to go up thither. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nAnd up there, O that I may go ! For thither \nthey have ascended whose lives were parts of \nmy life, and in whose deaths I died myself, \xe2\x80\x94 \ndied deaths that have had no resurrections yet ; \nbut they will have ; for every affection of mine \nwill live again, or rather will be joy again in the \nsight of dear, recovered friends. But in this \nmeanwhile I do not see them ; and others are \nbeing taken after them. \n\nAT7BIN. \n\nYes, one by one \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd faster and faster \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere are being assembled in the other world \n\n\n\n362 EUTHANASY. \n\nall your kindred, both after the flesh and after the \nspirit ; and with their going hence, this world is \nto you less and less like an abiding-place. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAs you know, Oliver, my friends have died \nfast lately. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd become spirits, and friends of yours gone \ninto bliss. And with every longing after them, \nyou grow more akin to heaven. And so, out \nof the very decay of this life, there grows in you \nthe spirit of another life. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nOnce I saw a large tree so hollow as to be lit- \ntle better than a case of bark ; still it was living. \nBut inside the tree, and overtopping it, grew a \nsapling so strong and green. And the hull of \nthe old tree was a fence round the young one ; \nthough, indeed, they were both one tree, for they \nhad the same root, and it was only the stem re- \nnewing itself. A very curious and pretty sight it \nwas. And it pleased me, as being a happy em- \nblem of myself. And I said, " My life is rooted \nin God fast and everlasting, and though outward- \nly I may perish, there is within me a life to be \nrenewed to all eternity." \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSuch a tree I myself saw near Dieventer in \nHolland, with an old man and a little child near \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nit. A very old man he was. He must be dead \nbefore this, and his grandchild be growing up \ninto his place in the world. Dead is a word that \nmust be used ; so that I wish all wrong meaning \ncould be kept out of it. For there is a sense in \nwhich that old man is not dead, and never will \nbe, though departed he is, no doubt. Through \none minute\'s look at him, he lives on in my mem- \nory ; and does not he, then, surely live on in the \nuniverse that produced and supported him ? O, \nsurely, surely ! Since I saw what I have been \nspeaking of, I have never once recollected it till \nthis minute, and it is as though I saw it now. \nEven without my knowledge, that scene has lived \non in me six years. Now my soul is like a thought \nin God ; so I will never fear dying out of the Di- \nvine mind. Last night it occurred to me that to \nbe remembered of God is to live in him. And \nso it is, I have no doubt, though to-day I do not \nunderstand how. For there are some truths \nwhich at one time are quite plain, though at \nanother they seem obscure. This is according \nto what mood we are in. Just as the stars shine \nmore or less brightly with the state of the atmos- \nphere. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere cannot be any forgetfulness in God, and \nall things live in him according to their nature, \nthe robin for its two or three years, the lark for \nits seven or eight, and the raven for its century. \n\n\n\n364 EUTHANASY.\' \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIn God the fountains rise, and the rivers run, \nand the oceans ebb and flow ; and shall not my \nspirit continue to be a spirit in him ? But in \ndeath there is the loss of the body ; and in \nhealth, is not there a losing of the body and a re- \ngaining of other flesh every minute ? And then, \nhas a river the same water running in it any two \nhours together ? A fountain is a fountain, in \nGod, for a hundred, a thousand, and many thou- \nsand years ; so I will not fear but my soul will \nbe a soul in him for ages of ages, as the Greek \nhas it, or, in our English phrase, for ever. \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII. \n\nVirtue thus \nSets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds \nA calm, and beautiful, and silent fire, \nFrom the encumbrances of mortal life, \nFrom error, disappointment, nay, from guilt. \n\n"Wordsworth. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAs I got up from my bedside prayer this \nmorning, I said, " I am ; and because I am what \nI am, I am immortal." Do you not feel the \nforce of this ? Nor do I now, though I did this \nmorning, but perhaps with my heart more than \nmy head, and that, perhaps, was more sensitive \njust after prayer than it is now. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nI am well persuaded that after earnest prayer \nthe mind is clearest, and the will is freest, and \nthe judgment is wisest, and that then thoughts \ncome to us most nearly like Divine messages. \nAnd after kneeling to God, our first few steps are \nalmost certainly in the way of eternal life. It is \nafter having drawn nigh to God, that our feelings \nare most nearly like Divine guidance. So that \nthe thought you had this morning may be quite \ntrue, though you may not be able to tell how it is. \n\n\n\n366 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, there is a state of mind between prayer \nand reasoning, in which the windows of heaven \nare partly open above us, and while we are look- \ning upwards, we have at the same time some \nsight of things about us ; and in the light of God, \nthey look in a way which is not to be doubted, \nthough not to be proved, nor even spoken of, \neasily. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGod is with us nigher than we suppose ; and \nhe is in many of the workings of our souls, \xe2\x80\x94 \na power that we do not think of. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI have some thoughts, on the first coming of \nwhich into my mind I clasped my hands and \nsaid, " O, not of my own thinking are these, but \nthy glorious sending, O my soul\'s God, thou God \nof truth ! " And sometimes I have had such \nbeauty in my soul, that I could not but believe it \na something out of heaven. And some seasons \nhave felt to me, O, so unearthly, so unlike what \nthe tongue can vouch for, that I am sure of there \nbeing a heaven nigh me, and of its spirit reaching \ninto my spirit at times. These are experiences \nthat I do not distrust, for they are akin to what \nour Saviour says of his doctrine being to be \nknown to be of God by the doing of it. The \nChristian heaven, \xe2\x80\x94 does any disciple wish to be \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 367 \n\nsure of its existence ? He can know it for him- \nself. There is even a sixpence that will let him \ninto what will be blessed certainty for him ; but it \nmust be his last coin, and he must halve it with a \nworse sufferer than himself ; and then for a while \nhe will be inside the golden gates, and under him \nthe earth will be like holy ground, and there will \nbe the feeling of a glory round his head, and there \nwill be the thronging round him of a presence like \nthat of angels, and in his ears there will be the \ndelight of a Divine voice, saying, " My son, my \nson, in thee I am well pleased." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, very precious such experiences are ; and \nthey might be commoner with us than they are. \nFor God is to be, and indeed is, felt in every \nmood that is godlike. But it is the loving soul \nthat believes most easily, and knows most largely \nwhat the Divine purposes are. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI have moments, in which immortality feels too \ngreat a thing for us men, \xe2\x80\x94 incredibly great. \nAnd for joy sometimes, and sometimes for fear, \nI cannot assure myself of my ever being to walk \nalongside the river of life. I remember once \nfeeling in this way, and I sat down on a bank to \nthink. And I saw minnows, and other happy \nlittle things, that dart about in brooks ; and I said \nto myself, that they had not been too little for \n\n\n\n368 EUTHANASY. \n\nGod\'s making. And with looking at them, I got \nto love them. And then I felt the more tenderly \nGod\'s love of myself, \xe2\x80\x94 that love which insects \nlive in, as well as angels. Then I said to myself, \n"Let God do with me what he will, any thing \nhe will ; and whatever it be, it will be either \nheaven itself or some beginning of it." Nothing \nof God\'s making can a man love rightly, without \nbeing the surer of God\'s loving himself, \xe2\x80\x94neither \nthe moon, nor the stars, nor a rock, nor a tree, \nnor a flower, nor a bird. And not the least \ngrateful of my thanksgivings have been hymns, \nthat have come of themselves on to my lips, while \nI have been listening to the birds of an evening. \nOnly let us love what God loves, and then his \nlove of ourselves will feel certain, and the sight \nof his face we shall be sure of; and immortality, \nand heaven, and the freedom of the universe, be \nas easy for us to believe in, as a father\'s giving \ngood gifts to his children. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHow should we know any thing rightly about \nGod, without loving him ? It is only with the \nheart that we can believe unto salvation. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nInfinite power, wisdom infinite, infinite love, \ninfinite life, \xe2\x80\x94 the God of infinities we would \ngladly offer ourselves up to, all of us, willing \nsacrifices. But many of us shrink from some \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 369 \n\nsmall offering when we are led up to the altar, if \nit is in an obscure corner of the world, or lowly \nin look. For, at first, our wish is to perform \ngrand service before many witnesses ; but this is \nnot what God wants often, and so it is seldom a \nperson is called to it ; but what he does wish is \nthe sincerity of the soul. And when a soul does \nbecome all his own, it is lit up from w T ithin with \nsuch Divine light as glorifies every thing else. \nDuty is an angel, reverently beloved, that walks \nbeside the man, with solemn steps ; and common \nlife is a path, shining before him more and more ; \nand the future is a mist which he will pass through, \nand so be nigher God ; and if to-day the world \nfeels round him like a temple for worship in, then \nto-morrow there will be a further world for him \nto pass on into, and it will be the holy of holies ; \nso his fervor trusts. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nVirtue known and praised by a whole town has \nits reward, perhaps, in popularity ; but they are \nthe good deeds, done by one hand unknown to \nthe other, and they are the prayers prayed in se- \ncret, that have the special promise of reward by \nour Father in heaven. The only virtue that \nspeaks of a reward at all plainly is what says \nleast about it, and it is what can lose money, and \nforego opportunities, and be misunderstood by \n24 \n\n\n\n370 EUTHANASY. \n\nfriends, and be alone in the world, happy enough \nin only hoping for heaven. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe hopefulness of human nature is infinite, \nand in a good heart it is unquenchable ; and it is \nevidence of heirship to what is not of this world. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut, Oliver, what are our fears ? for sometimes \nour hearts are as though they could misgive us \nabout a world to come. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nFears are angel-thoughts in black, telling the \nsame grand message of another life as our hopes \ndo ; only they are mourners the while for what \nun worthiness is in us. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSuch a life as yours was for that long time \nwould have made almost any body else heart-sick \nfor the rest of his years. But I do think with you \ncalamity must have been all joy. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is a joy to think of, but it was not to bear ; \nand I mourned under it more than was right. \nFor I fancied a life was being bowed into the \ndust, that otherwise would have been of some \nheight in the world. Once, from being well off, \nI was made poor, through offence being taken at \nwhat I did religiously, and which you know of. \nThose persecutors are now dear remembrances \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 371 \n\nof mine, because, but for my forgiveness of them, \nI could not be so sure as I am of my being my- \nself forgiven by God. They knew not what they \ndid; and most of them \xe2\x80\x94 five or six \xe2\x80\x94 would \nsay so now. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut they did you good, Oliver, when you did \nnot think it, nor they either. For what blows \nwere struck against you, God directed to the \nsculpturing out of a feature in your character, that \nwould otherwise have been less noble than it is. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd, uncle, I have a tender interest in the men \nwho made me endure grief for what was my con- \nscience toward God ; because this is said in the \nScriptures to be fellowship with Christ\'s suffer- \nings. This is a world in which we are being \ntempted together, and some of us perfected to- \ngether, \xe2\x80\x94 all of us, if we will. Much of what I \nam, I am become by the wrongs I have done, and \ngot pardoned, \xe2\x80\x94 griefs which I caused my parents \nand teachers, my school-fellows, and one or two \nfellow-students. Yes, among us men, these three \nthings are a large part of our virtue, \xe2\x80\x94 to endure, \nto forgive, and ourselves to get pardon. And so \nmy enemies, through repenting towards me, be- \ncome other and perhaps better than they would \nhave been but for wronging me. Christ died for \nthe world ; and we have fellowship with his suf- \n\n\n\n372 EUTHANASY. \n\nferings, when we endure and forgive persecutors ; \nfor through a right spirit toward them, earlier or \nlater, they will be changed. Yes, to endure \nwrongfully and forgivingly is to be bruised for \nother men, and in the end to have them healed \nwith our stripes. Let a man suffer with Christ, \nand he will know of his being to reign with him ; \nfor there will rise in his soul such a strange, strong \npersuasion of it. So, uncle, I have forgiven my \nenemies, and I love them ; at least I trust I do. \nThey made me suffer much and unjustly ; but it \nwas because I had been calumniated to them by \ntheir passions. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat was five years ago ; and at that time, \nOliver, I should not myself have understood you \nrightly ; I should have been unjust to you, I am \nafraid. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYou might have been cold towards me, but, my \ndear uncle, you would never have been false nor \nunfair. But those words I ought not to use ; they \nwould not betoken me much the better for having \nhad all manner of evil said and done against me \nfalsely. And this is a thing that I ought to be \nblessed for having had happen to me. O uncle, \nwhat I once hoped to do, and how I have failed \nof it ! But I think I did my best ; and no one \ncan do more than that. We do what we can in \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 373 \n\nthis earth, and we cannot achieve more. Our \nhuman ability has its bounds far short of controll- \ning the planets, and infinitely short of regulating \ndestiny. We work according to our means ; and \nperhaps we are thwarted by the enmity of the \nworld or by Mammon ; but these are God\'s ene- \nmies as well as ours, and they fight against him \nmore than against us. If what is godlike in us \nbrings trouble on us, it is God\'s concern more \nthan ours, \xe2\x80\x94 the Master\'s more than his servants\'. \nThere is not a righteous failure anywhere but \ncompromises Divine Providence, and is what \nGod will see to. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWe Christians work for God, and not for our- \nselves ; and when we fail even utterly, it is only \nto find our cause retrieved in heaven. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO, we should expect to live again, \xe2\x80\x94 at least I \nshould, \xe2\x80\x94 if it were only to hear sentence given on \nsuch righteous causes as have been cried down in \nthis world. If I were no Christian, I should yet \nthink in my flesh to hear God speak, though it \nwere only to justify to men what had been the \nlives of Socrates, and Barneveldt, and Madame \nRoland. Good, and just, and great, and devout, \nwas De Barneveldt ; and before the sword went \nthrough his neck, his last words were, " O God, \nwhat then is man ? " This was more than two \n\n\n\n374 ET7THANAST. \n\nhundred years ago. The words went up from \noff a scaffold into the air, and they have not been \nanswered yet ; but they will be some time, if there \nis any truth in the truth, or any meaning in con- \nscience. This is what I should have thought, \nwithout being a Christian. But now I know of a \nday in which the world will be judged in right- \neousness ; and there is not a man but, one way \nor another, makes me surer of it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI like what you said just now about our suffer- \ning from one another. And it is so great a pleas- \nure to hear it from you, after your having been \nso misunderstood, and \n\nAUBIX. \n\nThat my world did not know what I was in it, \nis nothing ; for think of the years that went over \nbefore Jesus Christ was known ; and, indeed, is \nhe known yet ? And in a world in which Christ \nsuffered for his goodness, and was an outcast, \nwithout a place to lay his head in, it would be \nalmost a fearful thing to be altogether comforta- \nble ; so I have sometimes thought, and so I \nshould still feel, only that my happiness has come \nthrough Christ, \xe2\x80\x94 through your Christian love, \nuncle Stephen. At ease in a world in which my \nLord was such a sufferer ! I hope, if I had been, \nI should have made occasions of self-sacrifice. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, Oliver, your poverty did come \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 375 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOnly of what I could not help doing for my \nconscience. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd it was Christ in you, \xe2\x80\x94 your conscience \nwas ; for if it had not been, you would not have \nacted as you have done more than once. And \nyou have made religion of your sorrows, and so \nyou have become what I am so glad of. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd happier than I should have been other- \nwise. For a man who knows how to sorrow \nrightly knows how to be glad with a holy joy ; \nand when he is happiest, it is as though there \nwere a something of God throbbing in his bosom. \nIt is as souls that we are happiest ; and so suffer- \ning makes for happiness, because it helps to make \nthe soul. O, what good sorrow does us often ! \nTo many a one, while he is happy, the outer \nworld feels eternal ; but as soon as he is sorrow- \nful, all worldly existence is only a film, because \nGod and his soul feel so close. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLike as a father pities his suffering child, and \nembraces it for it to feel his love the better, so \nthe Lord makes himself felt with his sorrowing \ncreatures. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhile I am happy in myself, there is a God \n\n\n\n376 EUTHANASY. \n\nplain to my eyes in the broad green turf, in the \nbranching tree, and in the flowing stream ; and it \noverarches me in the firmament, which is not only \nblue, but a holy joy to look at ; and from the sky \nat night, it watches me with ten million eyes ; \nand sometimes it makes me clasp my hands and \nsay, " O Lord, our Lord, how \xe2\x80\xa2 excellent is thy \nname in all the earth ! " This is when I am in \njoy ; but when I am in grief, and in want of some \nloving assurance from God, I do not think of out- \nward things, \xe2\x80\x94 fruits ripening on trees, or wheat- \nears waving yellow and thick against harvest ; \nand the stars vanish from between me and God, \nand so almost does my body, and I have quite \nanother feeling of him than what nature can give ; \nand through my grief, God is nigher me than \nthrough his own glory in creation. For it is \nwhom the Lord loves that he chastens. In afflic- \ntion, I am with God almost spirit with spirit ; and \nthen there forms within my soul that conscious- \nness of adoption which cries, " Father ! Father ! " \nO, yes ! we belong to the world we cry to more \nthan to this one we suffer in. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFor we are not in the flesh, but in the spirit, if \nso be that the spirit of God dwell in us ; as St. \nPaul says, before writing of that spirit of adop- \ntion whereby we cry, Abba, Father ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 377 \n\nAITBIN. \n\nThat cry is not formed in the throat, nor does \nit come any way of nerves and veins ; it is not of \nthe body ; and so it witnesses a life not of the \nbody, \xe2\x80\x94 more than witnesses, for it is the thing \nitself. I am one with God through the earnest- \nness of prayer, \xe2\x80\x94 the Father ! Father ! that I cry \nin my agony. I feel myself in God, and God in \nme, and the world is nothing to me, neither life \nnor death ; for I am as though I were past and \nthrough them all, and as though I had almost en- \ntered on the sight of God, \xe2\x80\x94 the Beatific Vision, \nthe Divine Ecstasy. Now, as I think, these \nspiritual states, unearthly as they are, are to be \nregarded as promising a disembodied life ; just \nas, while I was an infant, my ears and eyes were \nprophetic of what was to be a world of sight and \nsound for me to live in. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut, Oliver, there are those for whom sorrow \nis not only a dark night, but bewilderment ; and \nso they lose hope ; what would you say to them ? \n\nAITBIN. \n\nYour sacrifice is burning on the altar, and \naround you the temple of life is filled with smoke, \nand no light comes in through the windows, and \nthe very walls you cannot see ; but you know \nwhere you are ; for as long as you suffer, you are \nnigh the altar. That you know, and by that \n\n\n\n378 EUTHANASY. \n\nknowledge hold fast. Be quiet, fear not ; and \nbe you sure that when your sacrifice is over, one \nafter the other, the windows that open into the in- \nfinite \xe2\x80\x94 faith and hope \xe2\x80\x94 will show themselves ; \nand the air about you w 7 ill be the clearer and \nthe sweeter for having been so darkened awhile. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nIt ought always to be enough for us to be sure \nof God\'s being with us. But, Oliver, there have \nbeen times when I have not believed as I ought \nto have done ; and perhaps it may be so with me \nagain, for sometimes misgivings come into the \nmind the oftener for being resisted. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so they always do, I think. But I would \nhave you think as I do, dear uncle. As I am \nnow, a little trouble would darken my spirit, so \nas that hope could not shine into it at all ; but I \nlook over the earth, and up at the clouds, and \ninto infinity beyond ; and then I remember that I \ncan shut it all out, with only my hand on my \neyes : and so I. am quiet, even when it seems as \nthough the whole firmament of truth were hidden \nfrom me ; for this may happen through only a \nvery little cloud of doubt. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhen doubts are over, we are the better for \nhaving been under them. And this is what we \nought to remember. And when in trouble, we \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 379 \n\nought to think how much the better we shall be \nfor it, some time. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSorrow sobers us, and makes the mind genial. \nAnd in sorrow we love and trust our friends \nmore tenderly, and the dead become dearer to us. \nAnd just as the stars shine out in the night, so \nthere are blessed faces that look at us in our grief, \nthough before their features were fading from our \nrecollections. Suffering ! Let no man dread it \ntoo much, because it is good for him, and it will \nhelp to make him sure of his being immortal. It \nis not in the bright, happy day, but only in the \nsolemn night, that other worlds are to be seen \nshining in their long, long distances. And it is in \nsorrow, \xe2\x80\x94 the night of the soul, \xe2\x80\x94 that we see \nfarthest, and know ourselves natives of infinity, \nand sons and daughters of the Most High. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nYes, Oliver, there is use in old age, and it is \nwell that this life should commonly end with ill- \nness. \n\nAITBIN. \n\nIt is nothing to me, now, what men think of \nme. But what I am to God is every thing. \nPain simplifies the character ; and I think what \nlittle I have had has wrung more than one little \nhypocrisy out of me. It has been worth my \nbeing ill, only for this. Sometimes I feel as \n\n\n\n3S0 EUTHANASY. \n\nthough I would not have one fault or weakness \nunknown to you, uncle. And I do think, in the \nkindly atmosphere of home, that a character will \nalways grow the faster and the healthier for being \nexposed all round, \xe2\x80\x94 for having every foible \nknown to those who will kindly allow for it. I \nnever did care much, I hope, but now I do not \ncare at all, to be esteemed even as what I am ; \nand so I think and feel, and talk with persons \nmore freely, and perhaps more pleasantly, than I \nused to do. Smooth, and paint, and varnish the \ntrunk and boughs of the oak, and the majesty of \nit will be less hurt than the grandeur of the soul is \nby its attempting to look what it is not, either in \nknowledge, or feeling, or manners. O, I remem- \nber once there came into my mind a thought as \nthough out of heaven, and I said to myself, \n" What I am I am, and I will not pretend to be \nmore " ; and suddenly I felt as though I were \nright with every law of the universe, and as \nthough there were a way certain for me up to \nthe fatherly presence of Him who said of himself, \n" I am that I am." \n\nMABHAM. \n\nOliver, from what unexpected things I have \nheard from you many times, I could well believe \nthat there are few things in this present life but \ndo rightly witness to the life that is to come. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 381 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnnoyances, distractions, troubles, wrongs ! \nIn enduring them, the persuasion rises in us of \nour not being born for such things only. For by \nthem the soul\'s sense of order is wronged ; and \nby that very feeling, she knows herself meant for \nanother element than the stormy one of this \nworld. And now and then, amid her distresses, \nin a more than usually perfect way, the soul has \nthe peace of God rise in her, and she witnesses \nto herself, " This peace is not of this world ; and \nif not of this world, then it must be of another, \nand I myself must be of it too." And when a \nwrong is done us, and we bear with it, and are \ngrieved for the evil-doers, sometimes it is as \nthough the angels of heaven were looking at us, \nand as though there were an instinct in the soul, \nthat actions higher than this world reach a sym- \npathy beyond it. And so they do. And so, \nunder injustice, we Christians can rejoice and be \nexceeding glad on account of our great reward in \nheaven. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBadness shows the certain existence of good- \nness, as being its natural reverse. And the \nworld is never so out of tune, but some strain of \nheaven is to be heard in it by the ear that is \nspiritual. \n\n\n\n382 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNearly always, uncle, music makes me feel \nmyself what I am not, but what I must think I am \nto be ; for as a boy I knew something of what \nmy manhood would be, by the manly feelings I \nhad now and then. In listening to music, it is as \nthough there were stirring in me the beginnings \nof another manner of life than what is possible to \nbe lived in the flesh, or be thought of either, \xe2\x80\x94 \nbut certainly freer and more earnest. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI have felt the same, or rather what you speak \nof ; for what you understand to be the meaning of \nit, I had certainly never thought of before. But \nis it really a thought, or only a fancy of yours ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is a belief of mine, but of course a very \nslight one. And, indeed, I think our nature af- \nfords many more tokens of being immortal than \nare commonly minded. This world\'s feeling so \nmean and poor argues us bora for what is higher. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so we are ; for we are heirs of God, and \njoint heirs with Christ. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt sounds profanely, that horses have been sta- \nbled, and cooking-fires been lit, in cathedrals. \nBut the thought of God is a holier temple than a \nminster is, and sometimes we live in it worse \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 383 \n\nthan soldiers in a church ; for really discontent- \nment is blasphemy, and an ill look against another \nis a curse. O, sometimes it feels to me quite pro- \nfane that I should be living ; and I draw in my \nbreath slowly, as though unworthy of God\'s air ; \nand it is to me as though the brightest life of man \nwould be but a dark track on the shining floor of \nheaven. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAh, yes ! what is our goodness ? what is our \nvirtue ? Nothing, nothing ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNot only men, but even their thoughts, by being \nhumble, get exalted. This world is nothing ; and \nso it may well be to me, if I am heir to a Father \nin heaven, and to some one of his many mansions. \nAt times, the brightest virtue of man is dim to \nme ; and why ? It is because the eyes of my \nunderstanding are opening, against I have sight of \nGod. This world is mean to me, only because \nI have eyes not of this world ; because I am \ngrowing a new creature in Christ. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou seem to me to rely so confidently, Oli- \nver \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOn the same kind of argument as the author of \nthe Epistle to the Hebrews makes use of, when \nhe writes, that a man comes to God only through \n\n\n\n384 EUTHANASY. \n\nfirst believing in his existence. Could we have \ncalled upon God if he had not wished it ? For \ncould not he have made us so as to have had no \nfeeling of him, and no want of him ? That I can \npray, " Lord, help me ! " is a proof that he will \nhelp me. Because a prayer can be prayed at all, \nthere is certainly a Divine ear to hear it. It is \nbecause I can call upon God in the day of trouble, \nthat I may be sure there is help for me, some- \nwhere or somehow, under Providence. Here is \na parent, who is all anxiety and love for his child. \nAnd what his child is to him, he feels as though \nhe himself might be to God. By his nature, by \nthe way he is made to feel, his own trust in God \nis the stronger for his child\'s trust in himself. \nMy God, my God, help me as a father ! \xe2\x80\x94 when \na man prays so, is it no more than if he had \nwished well to himself ? It is not merely that the \nman is allowed to pray, but he is made to do it ; \nand his heart in him is made in such a way that \nhe prays out of it the more believingly for his being \na father. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat I quite think, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is not by chance, but by design, that a man\'s \nbecoming a father makes him pray the more be- \nlievingly. And so you think, uncle. And I think \nmyself that every way of feeling is to be trusted \nto, that grows out of a Christian heart. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 385 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, out of a heart that really is Christian. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe purer in heart I become, the more I want \nto see God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA blessed want ; for Christ has promised it \nshall be satisfied. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd through Christ in me, I am sure of it. \nMy soul yearns to God ; then it will be taken \ninto the bosom of the Father, some time. God \nis love, God is truth ; and he would not have let \nme long for his face, if he had meant me never to \nsee it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNo, he would not ; for if we are made to hun- \nger, it is so that we may eat ; or if to thirst, it is \nbecause drink is to be had, and because it is good \nfor us. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe universe is juster than my justice, and \nbetter than my best thoughts, and will work to a \nmore blessed end than even my love can hope, \nso that safely I may trust in it, all I can, and un- \nboundedly. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA mother may forget her child, but God can- \nnot forget us. \n\n25 \n\n\n\n386 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, never. And when a child dies, and a \nmother feels as though, if gone for ever, the uni- \nverse might have perished with it, is not it as \nthough the truth of the universe were pledged to \nher for her seeing her child again ? I think so. \nAnd by the beauty of every star that shines, by \nevery thing good in this world, and by all that \nGod has done in our knowledge, and by every \nthing right we know of him, that mother will have \nher child again. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, she will. And we shall all of us have \nour hopes, \xe2\x80\x94 such of them as are pure. For \nnothing of God\'s giving dies from us into the \ngreat grave of the world, without there being to \nbe a resurrection for it, in some more glorious \nform. For nothing can fall from us, and be for- \ngotten before God. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIf I had ever known a stone the law of gravita- \ntion did not hold good by, then I might fear for \nmyself proving the one soul which God might for- \nget. But it is God\'s being in it, that holds the \nearth together ; and there is not a grain of sand \nbut feels him, nor a thought of mine but is a wit- \nness of him. For could I remember, could I \nthink, without faculties ? and they are not of my \nown maintaining in me. Because if it were not \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 387 \n\nfor God, my soul would dissipate at once. So \nthat my very fear of being forgotten is a proof that \nI am not. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nWell, so it is. There is no one who would not \neasily believe in a life to come, if this present life \nwere the wonderful thing to him it ought to be. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSometimes it does seem to me so wonderful \nthat I should be alive ! It quite startles me for \nthe moment ; and I cannot help saying to myself \nthat I am, \xe2\x80\x94 I am, \xe2\x80\x94 I am. It is so strange that \nthe world should be, and I be in it, and walking \nabout it, that it is as though voices from above \nmight call to me, " Thou ! thou art alive, \xe2\x80\x94 alive \nout of nothing. And thou ! what, what art thou \ndoing now ? " This hand of mine ! it is curious, \nvery curious, more curiously made than I know. \nWhether a brute knows any thing of himself or \nnot, I cannot tell ; but this I do know, that I am \nmyself fearfully and wonderfully made. And this \nfearfulness and wonder ! my God ! it is thyself ; it \nis what I have my being in. When I clench my \nhand, it is through power of thy lending, O God ! \n\xe2\x80\x94 power that thou knowest of, and that I am \nto answer for the use of. By what I am, Lord \nGod ! what I am to be is nothing so strange. I \nwas born of my mother, and she of her mother, \nbut not without God ; for one hair of their heads \n\n\n\n388 EUTHANASY. \n\nthey had not themselves the power to make white \nor black. And besides, Eve was not born of \nherself, nor did she spring out of the dust, nor did \nshe get Vnade by chance, nor did Adam. Some- \ntimes, if I could doubt my existence, I should ; \nfor it does seem so strange, that for all eternity I \nshould not have been, and now, this year, that I \nshould be. Ay, when I think of it, the miracle \nis in my being at all, and not in my being to be \nagain. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 389 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. \n\nBut enough is said to make a speculative man see, that if God should join \nthe soul of a lately dead man, even whilst his corpse should lie entire in his \nwinding-sheet here, unto a body made of earth taken from some mountain \nin America, it were most true and certain, that the body he should then \nlive by were the same identical body he lived with before his death and late \nresurrection. It is evident that sameness, thisness and thatness, belongeth \nnot to matter by itself, for a general indifference runneth through it all, but \nonly as it is distinguished and individuated by the form. \n\nKenelm Digby. \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nI do not think embalming a body is right. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy not ? For is not it natural to attempt it ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBut then who are they to whom it is natural ? \nThe old worshippers of Isis and Osiris, rather \nthan us Christians. It is according to nature for \na dead body to rot and vanish ; and so we ought \nto let it, for no one can attempt to mend the ways \nof nature and not maim himself some way. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut how in embalming a human body ? \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIn his feelings about death and the dead. In \nany thing to violate nature is to wrong one\'s \nself. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n390 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI know it will be no matter to me what becomes \nof my body, any more than of my clothes ; yet I \nfeel as though it would be pleasanter, if I knew \nwhy my body must dissolve. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt would have been an awful thing if the human \nbody had continued fresh after death, and only \nwith the breath out. We could not then have \nburied a body, nor hidden it away, without bru- \ntalizing ourselves. And besides, it would have \nmade us feel at last as though we were only \nbodies ; and death would have been a worse ter- \nror to us than he is. And then, uncle, I am sure \nthat wrong feeling about dead bodies vitiates faith \nin immortality. Besides, if I died to-morrow, \nwhy should my corpse be felt about so strangely, \nwhen it would be only one of several bodies that \nI have had and worn out. For it is said that in \nthe human frame every particle is changed in seven \nyears. But now how begins the gravestone ? \n"Here lieth the body of John Smith." But \nmore truly it would say, M Here lies the last of \nthe bodies of John Smith," or " Here lies the \nbody from which John Smith departed," or \n"Here lies the body which John Smith had the \nday when he departed this life." Either one of \nthese forms is truer than what the stonecutter \nuses, and, as well as being more correct, is hap- \npier to think of. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 391 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd if truer, then better every way. I should \nnot see much of the sublimity of a mountain, if \nwhile looking at it I had a mote in my eye ; but \nthe grave-mound of a friend is a greater matter \nthan the Alps are to some of my feelings ; so in \nthose feelings I would not have any thing false, if \npossible. As rightly as I can, let me think and \nfeel in regard to my friend\'s disappearance. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIn some countries, a corpse is not to be touch- \ned for fear of being made unclean by it, while in \nsome others it is tended almost as though alive. \nThere have been countries in which the dead \nhave been lodged more grandly than the living ; \nand in some places, they are hurried out of sight \nindecently quick. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is custom, chiefly ; else I was going to say \nthat carelessness about the remains of the dead \nwould argue but little kindly feeling one with \nanother, among the living. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI feel solemnly among the old walls and arches \nof what was once a church ; and shall I feel less \nreverently beside what was once a saintly man to \nlook at ? Mere flesh and bones, \xe2\x80\x94 dust returning \nunto dust, \xe2\x80\x94 is it ? What, then, are the remains \nof Fountain Abbey, of Rievaulx Abbey, and at \n\n\n\n392 ETTTHANASY. \n\nCastleacre ? Stones and lime ; and with poor \nworkmanship in them compared with the make of \na human body. The body of a departed saint is \ndead, so it is ; but it is the ruins of what was \nonce a temple of the Holy Ghost. It is a dis- \nused temple ; in it, loving wishes no longer form \nand rise to God like incense ; the light of reason \nin it is put out ; the book of remembrance in it is \nshut, and there is no more reading from it ; di- \nvine service in it is over, and an eternal Amen \nhas been said to it by Fate ; and at the soul\'s \ngoing forth from her temple, there was joy, though \nelsewhere than among men. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, we are temples of God ; or rather our \npersons are, as long as our souls are in them. It \nis the indwelling spirit that makes flesh and blood \nbe a temple. We will remember this, and so \nnot think more of the temple than of what sancti- \nfies it. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nOn York Minster there are always repairs go- \ning on, and it is the same with the human temple. \nFrom what it was ten years ago, every particle \nof my body has been changed ; but it is not so \nwith my soul. Four times over has my body \nbeen changed ; and when it is changed at last, it \nwill only be seven years more swiftly than before. \nAnd after all, we shall not quit the world more \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 393 \n\nsuddenly than we entered it. It is more than ten \nyears since there was in my body any thing of \nthe limbs I used to run with as a boy ; but I \nhave the thoughts I had then, and very likely \nevery one of them, though not to be called up at \nwill. Now is not this proof enough of spiritual \nexistence ? It is what Dr. Johnson did not know \nof, perhaps, when he would have liked to have \nseen a spirit. A strange wish ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHe was confident in there being a world of \nspirits ; but he had never seen it, and so \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNor have I ever seen my own head ; but that \nI have it, I am sure. But you will say I can \nhandle it with my hands. And so I can ; but \nthen I have to depend on the correctness of what \nfeeling is in my hands, and that is what I cannot \nbe certain of. In every thing, for the correct- \nness of what knowledge we get, even through \nour eyes and ears, we have to trust the truth of \nour make, an<i so at last of our Maker. My bod- \nily faculties I have used as trustworthy ; and at \nleast as much I will trust what spiritual feelings I \nhave been made with. And I think there are \nthoughts which I should sooner and more rightly \ntrust than either my eyes or my ringers. I should \nnot believe in another world, for seeing a crowd \nof ghosts, at all more firmly than I do now. For \n\n\n\n394 EUTHANASY. \n\nthen I should have to credit my eyesight ; and \nsince trust I must, I can quite as surely trust \nwhat witness of the spirit there is in my spirit. \nWhen I go down on my knees, sometimes there \nis that from within me which calls aloud, " Fa- \nther ! Father ! " And always that cry is answer- \ned, because that yearning of the spirit changes \ninto its own answer, into a mingled feeling of \nawe, and faith, and love ; and it is as though I \nwere wrapped round with a cloud, and were spo- \nken to from above, " My son, my son, in whom \nI am pleased ! " \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere is much truth in what you said once, \nOliver, that if a man feels like Christ, he will get \nto think like him more and more. And we get \nto feel like Christ by doing his commandments. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA man has doubts that weaken his faith ; then \nlet him fix on some one fault of his own and mend \nit, and there will be one doubt the less in him, \nmost likely. Or he cannot hope much, he is so \nmournful ; then let him be some worse sufferer\'s \nhope, and he will soon have heaven a dear \nthought with him. Only let a disciple live as \nChrist lived, and he will easily believe in living \nagain, as Christ does. And in this way he may \nbelieve and almost know himself to be a living \nsoul, as well as a body that can be touched. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 395 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, and let a man live the life of the spirit, \nand he will the more easily think of himself out- \nliving the life of his body. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, when a body becomes dust, there is \nnot a grain of it that does not feel the laws of at- \ntraction and gravitation. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so the soul is not to be feared for ; for if \nthrough God every particle of the body is drawn \ninto use, then here are a thousand and a million \ninstances of the certain way in which the soul \nmust be drawn into life. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nYes, spirit to spirit we go, like to like, chil- \ndren to our Father, and godlike to God\'s self. \nIn God I live, and move, and have my being ; \nand in him I shall weaken, and faint, and have \nmy death. This is certain. But, indeed, I am \nalways dying. No two days is my body the \nsame, and no two minutes. By my breathing \nand my heart beating, my body is decaying and \nrenewing every moment, my bones and even my \neyes ; and it is not of my own will, but of God ; \nand so will my death be. My body will fail me \nonly to leave me on the bosom of the Father, and \nto let me feel it more warmly than ever. Four \nbodies I have worn out ; and parting with this \n\n\n\n396 EUTHANASY. \n\nfifth one whole will be what will be called my \ndeath, but what will be really my life, \xe2\x80\x94 my new- \nness of life. ^ \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFour bodies, one after another, you have had, \nand I ten or more. It is quite true, I suppose. \nAnd it is knowledge along with which embalming \nwould not have become a practice, nor such \ntombs have been built as are in Lycia. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nIn a mausoleum or a grand tomb, so much is \nmade of the body that one thinks of it too much, \nas though it had been the whole man. For my \nown body I would not have a leaden coffin, nor \na tomb, nor a bricked grave ; but I would have \nit laid in the mould. For now it is hot and cold \nwith the air, and well and ill with the weather, \nand the way the wind blows ; and so the way of \nnature let it go when I am gone, \xe2\x80\x94 ashes to \nashes, and dust to dust. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut, my dear Oliver \n\nATTBIN. \n\nThis frame of mine, \xe2\x80\x94 it is mine through eat- \ning, and drinking, and breathing. This body \nof mine is out of wheat-fields and gardens ; it \nhas come to me out of the ground, through the \nroots of herbs and trees, and in wholesome air \nfrom the forests of Norway, and the woody mid- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 397 \n\ndie of Australia, and the banian-trees of Asia. \nThere is in my veins what has been in a rainbow, \nperhaps, and very certainly what is from the rice- \nfields of the East Indies, and from the cane-brakes \nof the West Indies, and from out of the sea. \nWonderful is the way our souls take flesh, and \nhave their earthly being. It is well known to us, \nand so is not much to think of; else even life \nafter death would be an easier thought than it is \nsometimes. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWe men may well hope to live again ; as we, \nand we alone, are let know what wonderful way \nwe are living already. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nIt is better not to think so much of the bodies \nof the dead as the Egyptians did in embalming \nthem, and as the Arabians did in making rock \ntombs for them, and as the Romans and other \nnations did in their various funereal customs. I \nwould not wish to have my body laid under the \nfloor of a church ; but in the earth let it be laid, \nand let the grass grow over it, and under that \ngreen mantle of her spreading, let Nature be free \nto take again into herself what has been my body ; \ninto grass let it go, and up the roots, and into the \ngreen boughs of trees ; and in vapor let it rise \nfrom the ground, and into the clouds. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV. \n\nO, though oft depressed and lonely, \n\nAll my fears are laid aside, \nIf I but remember only \n\nSuch as these have lived and died ! \n\nLongfellow. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI would not allow of any creed in the Church \nbut the Bible ; and it should be heresy for one \nminister to use a word of it against another, ex- \ncept lovingly. O, but there would then be the \npeace of God among Christians, and very soon, \nperhaps, throughout the world ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn Eton church, under the arms of Sir Henry \nWotton, it is said, in Latin, that underneath lies \nthe author of the maxim, that a great flow of ar- \ngument is what runs to a disease in the Church. \nAnd then the reader is told to ask for his name \nelsewhere. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHis epitaph is not in such good taste as Wal- \nton\'s life of him. How few good epitaphs there \nare ! I have seen somewhere, that on the tomb \nof one Count Algarotti, a philosopher at Pisa, is \nwhat he himself ordered should be cut, \xe2\x80\x94 Here \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 399 \n\nlies Algarotti, but not all of him. A word or \ntwo more would have made it religious, and the \nbest epitaph I know of. Of all the monumental \ninscriptions in Ely cathedral, there is not one that \nis good, I think ; but I did not read the more \nmodern ones. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou must have been very fastidious when you \nwere there, Oliver ; for some good ones you \nmust have seen, because so many dignitaries of \nthe Church have always lived at Ely, \xe2\x80\x94 men of \nlearning, and leisure, and often, no doubt, of po- \netical, as well as devout feeling. And then, if I \nremember rightly, the tablets in the cathedral, and \nthe inscriptions on tombs, are very numerous. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo they are ; telling what stalls, rectories, \ndeaneries, wives, children, learning, virtues, and \nyears, the clergy of that rich soil have had ; and \nwhat have been the lives of several officers of \nthe Right Honorable the Corporation of the Great \nLevel of the Fens. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSuch persons are gratefully remembered in \nthose marshes, I dare say. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo it would seem ; for an epitaph says that \none deceased was very dearly remembered in \nThorny Level, in the Isle of Ely, and in Deep- \n\n\n\n400 ETJTHANASY. \n\ning Fens, in Lincolnshire, on account of his abil- \nity in draining fenny and marsh lands. Another \ninscription says, \xe2\x80\x94 " Under this marble rests what \nthere was of earth in Thomas Benyon, a clergy- \nman. Us survivors he taught how to die, on the \ntwenty-fifth of February, in the year of our salva- \ntion sixteen hundred and eighty-nine." Now \nthat is well, but it is followed by another line or \ntwo, not quite so good. I wonder why it is that \nfuneral inscriptions are almost always so poorly \nwritten, so universally wanting in taste. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is nothing surprising, Oliver. For such in- \nscriptions are commonly written by men blind \nwith tears, and with unsteady hands. And there \nis a distress that is not rare, and that quite dis- \nables the mind for correct thinking, and especially \nfor tasteful expression ; for taste comes of mental \nharmony ; and so there is no wonder it is wanting \non tombstones, which are written on in a troubled \nspirit almost always. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, you are right. And I am rather \nashamed of myself for what gravestones I have \nsmiled at ; for I was thoughtless ; as I ought to \nhave known that epitaphs are the utterances of \nmourners, and are nearly all of them what would \nsound very natural, if heard from quivering lips, \nand with a stop here and there to keep a sob \n\n\n\nETTTHANASY. 401 \n\n\\ \n\ndown. I remember having seen, at Chowbent, \na tablet to the memory of Dr. John Taylor, the \ndivine, and from which he appears to have died \nin his sleep ; and this was what he used to wish \nmight be his earthly end, \xe2\x80\x94 so the sexton of the \nchapel said \n\nMARHAM. \n\nArchbishop Leighton used to say, that if he \nmight choose a place to die in, it should be an \ninn, so as to escape seeing his friends weep ; and \nhe did die at \'the Bell, on a visit to London. \nHe thought, by dying at an inn, he should feel \nthe more like a pilgrim starting on the last part of \nhis journey home. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSpenser makes a wanderer be told, that death \nis itself an inn : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDeath, is an equal doom \nTo good and bad, the common inn of rest ; \nBut after death the trial is to come, \nWhen best shall be to them that lived best. \n\nIn his last illness, Pascal was troubled at his \nhaving more comforts than some other sufferers, \nand he wished to be carried to a hospital to die. \nHe was religiously mistaken in wearing a girdle \nof spikes, \xe2\x80\x94 at least we will hope he was ; but \nwithout any doubt, he was a Christain in earnest. \nHis pains were very great for a long while, but \nespecially towards the end of his life ; but they \n26 \n\n\n\n402 ETITHANASY. \n\nwere what he could almost take his ease in, for, \nas he said to his sister, it was a happiness to him \nto be in such a state as to have nothing to do \nbut to submit humbly and calmly. \n\nMAE.HAM. \n\nIn the life of Dr. John Donne, he is said, his \nlast fortnight, to have been so happy as to have \nhad nothing to do but to die. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe good men of his age died more deliberate- \nly than is often done now. As soon as they \nknew themselves mortally ill, they finished their \nearthly business, sent for their friends to have a \nfew last words with them, said, perhaps, how and \nwhere they would wish to be buried ; and then \nthey could watch the great eclipse of life, and, \nwith the darkness growing on them, could wonder \nand worship in quiet. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBishop Ken had even his shroud made in read- \niness for his death, and he used to carry it about \nwith him when he travelled ; and he put it on in \nhis last illness, and died in it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHis brother-in-law, Izaak Walton, was not so \nascetic, but was quite as good a man, I think ; \nand I think would not have put a shroud on, but \nwould rather have died in a meadow on a summer \nafternoon. I remember the last stanza of a poem \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 403 \n\nwhich he made, as he sat on the grass under a \nsycamore-tree, and perhaps with a book on his \nknees, and a dog nigh him. He says, I could \nwish many things, but most, to \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nwith my Bryan and a book. \nLoiter long days near Shawford orook ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nThere sit by him and eat my meat ; \nThere see the sun both rise and set \', \nThere bid good morning to next day ; \nThere meditate my time away ; \n\n\xc2\xa7And angle on, and beg to have \nA quiet passage to*a welcome grave. \n\nDear old Izaak ! By feeling those lines of his, \none is better fit for death than by putting a \nshroud on. Walton thanked God for flowers, \nand showers, and meat, and content, and leisure \n\nkto go a-fishing. And I thank God for my know- \ning of him ; for he has done me good by his \nbooks and cheerful piety. \nMAKHAM. \nWalter Pope and Izaak Walton would have \nliked one another, I should think. Walter Pope \nwrote a poem called the Old Man\'s Wish. I \nremember a verse of it : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMay I govern my passions with absolute sway, \nGrow wiser and better as life wears away, \nWithout gout or stone, by a gentle decay, \xe2\x80\x94 \nA gentle \xe2\x80\x94 a gentle \xe2\x80\x94 a gentle decay ! \n\nYou would not think those lines had ever been \n\nLatin ; but they were once, and were translated \n\nby Vincent Bourne. \n\n\n\n404 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nI like them, uncle, very much. And I like the \nway John Keats wished to die ; it is what he felt \nwhile he was listening to the nightingale once, \nand I suppose in the dark. \n\nDarkling I listen ; and for many a time \n\nI have been half in love with easeful Death, \xe2\x80\x94 \nCalled him soft names in many a mused rhyme, \n\nTo take into the air my quiet breath: \nNow more than ever seems it rich to die, \nTo cease upon the midnight with no pain, \nWhile thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad \nIn such an ecstasy. \n\nHe died where there are more nightingales than \nthere are here ; and we will hope he felt at the \nlast what he said himself, that disappointments \nand anxieties are the subtile food on which to feel \nhow quiet death is. Uncle, I will repeat to you \nthe last lines of what is supposed to have been \nNicoll\'s last poem : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDeath is upon me, yet I fear not now. \n\nOpen my chamber window, \xe2\x80\x94 let me look \nUpon the silent vales, the sunny glow \n\nThat fills each alley, close, and copsewood nook. \nI know them, love them, mourn not them to leave ; \nExistence and its change my spirit cannot grieve ! \n\nBrave Robert Nicoll ! for when he was thus re- \nsigned to death, he had a dear wife and a useful \nemployment, and had just struggled through pov- \nerty up to the sight of a high and bright path in \nsociety. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 405 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou read me, yesterday, a sonnet of Bryant\'s. \nI should like to hear it again. He wishes in it to \nbe in his old age like the month October, and to \ndie like it. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nI will read it, uncle ; and this is a right day for \nit, is not it ? \n\nAy, thou art welcome, heaven\'s delicious breath ! \nWhen woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, \nAnd suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, \n\nAnd the year smiles as it draws near its death : \n\nWind of the sunny south ! 0, still delay \nIn the gay woods, and in the golden air, \nLike to a good old age released from care, \n\nJourneying, in long serenity, away. \n\nIn such a bright, late quiet, would that I \nMight wear out life like thee, \'mid bowers and brooks, \nAnd, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, \n\nAnd music of kind voices ever nigh ; \n\nAnd when my last sand twinkles in the glass, \n\nPass silently from men, as thou dost pass. \n\nFriends with him, \xe2\x80\x94 he would wish to have \nfriends with him at the last. And so would I. \nHe would wish to have kind voices within his \nhearing, and he is right ; for, O, the magic, the \ncomfort, the unutterable, the tranquillizing pow r er, \nthere is in the human voice ! I could wish my- \nself to be able to hear to the last, and never to \nbe too \'weak to read. Some men have died with \nbooks in their hands ; and I think Petrarch did. \n\n\n\n\n406 ETJTHANASY. \n\n\n\nAnd Bailey says there is that to be written yet, \nwhich good old men shall read, and then, \n\nClosing the book, shall utter lowlily, \xe2\x80\x94 \n"Death! thou art infinite ; it is life is little." \n\nAh ! some such book once I hoped to attempt \n\nwriting. But the trial was not to be allowed me. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, Oliver, in part it was to be, and is. For \nno old man would have been more grateful for the \nbook than I am for your talk. We have been \ntalking about how some men have wished to die ; \nbut how one would like to know what thoughts \nthey had at the last, \xe2\x80\x94 those poets and philoso- \nphers that are dead ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA man like Tasso, for instance. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, I have a piece by me that I wrote two \nyears ago. It is called the Last Vision of Tasso. \nTowards the end of his life, the poet imagined \nhimself visited by a spirit. His friend, the Mar- \nquis Manso, says he once heard a most lofty con- \nverse ; but, as it seemed to him, it was Torquato, \nat one time questioning, and at another replying. \nThough, as the listener says, the discourse was \nmarvellously conducted, both in the sublimity of \nthe topics, and in a certain unwonted manner of \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n407 \n\n\n\ntalking, that exalted him into an ecstasy with \nhearing it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI should very much like to see what you have \nwritten, Oliver. For there is in it, I have no \ndoubt, a good deal of what you have felt your- \nself. \n\n\n\n408 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV. \n\nI can behold how merit lies in ashes ; \n\nHow darkness, circled round with brightest glories, \n\nIts hollow head upreareth ; \n\nHow in the wise man\'s room the fool is sitting, \n\nAnd virtue grieves all wretched and forsaken ; \n\nHow hateful vice and vile demerit scoff her, \n\nAnd drive her trembling from the home of fortune ; \n\nThe bad tree blossoming, and by lightning stricken \n\nThe noble stem. This can I see, still hoping. \n\nAnd therefore will I hail the better future, \n\nWhich in me lives, which I behold within me ; \n\nThither to meet the young day will I hasten, \n\nFollowing the star to which my fate I \'ve trusted. \n\nWhen I the dust from off my feet have shaken, \n\nThen will I, too, soft branches round me waving, \n\nLie down in happy quiet ! \n\nFor One I know amid the stars is circling, \n\nAnd from their bright choir draweth strains harmonioua. \n\nF. von Zedlitz. \n\nTASSO. \n\nHow the time has gone ! Still I have not \nbeen asleep ; at least, I think I have not. And \nyet now the light shines on the other side of the \nroom. Ah, sun ! very beautiful sun ! Thou art \nnot wearing old yet, but in thy light I have grown \nold before my time. No ! it was not in thy light \nthat that happened to me, for it was in the dun- \ngeon at Ferrara. Seven years ! Ay, they mad- \nden me to think of. And I was mad ; I was. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 409 \n\nBut on which side of the hospital door I first \ngrew frenzied I will not say, and I will try not to \nthink. That God knows and will judge upon, \xe2\x80\x94 \nhe will, he will. Nay, but I pray thee, God ! \npardon the matter, and pardon me. For I will \nnot ask thee to judge between me and him, \xe2\x80\x94 \nhim that was my master. God forgive him the \nwrong he did me ! I do, \xe2\x80\x94 that is I hope I do. \nOnly yesterday they gave me the sacrament, and \ntwice since then I have been bitter against Alfon- \nso, and thought God would judge him. Ay, I \nshould not have thought that without I had wish- \ned it. May God, merciful and compassionate, \npardon me ! I will confess this sin while it is \nfresh ; I will do it this evening. Why, it is \nnearly evening now ! Ah ! one, two, three, five \nswallows ! O you blessed creatures ! For you \nhave the spring to come before you, and you \nbring the summer from behind you ; and with \nyou it is always a glad earth. This very minute, \nyou are flying up and down, and across the Ti- \nber, and in and out of the Coliseum ; and some \nof you, the while, are resting yourselves on tree- \ntops and on churches. And you see the Capi- \ntol, and can fly to it so easily ! but now I shall \nlever reach it. I shall die without my crown. \nI have hoped for it for years, and now I shall \nmiss of it by this sickness. Poor Torquato ! I \ndid think once, that Virgil might perhaps have \n\n\n\n410 EUTHANASY. \n\nsome time called thee brother. But that is past \nhope. For now that I could work, I am dying ; \nand now that I have just got the means of living, \nmy lifetime is over : and now that the hand of \ntyranny is off me, the heavier hand of death is on \nme. O, what I might have been ! But that will \nsoon be stifled in the dust of what I am about to \nbe. Once I hoped before this to have ascended \nup on high, and been one of the greater lights in \nthe firmament of thought for ever. But I have \nnot risen, and I shall die out like a marsh-light \nextinguished in rain, \xe2\x80\x94 I, Torquato Tasso. I \nam heart-sick. I am not afraid of death ; but can \nI trust him quite ? Me, my uncles, my mother\'s \nbrothers, have defrauded ; to me, friends have \nbeen false ; and me, my patron imprisoned. \nThere have been times \xe2\x80\x94 I remember them \xe2\x80\x94 \nin which the face of every man was that of an \nenemy against me. I knew how people felt \ntowards me ; and so, by my walking down the \nstreets of Ferrara, my soul has been, as it were, \npierced through and through with swords. Then \nI have been cheated by the very years of my life ; \nfor fifty of them have spent out of my strength \nwhat ought to have been the health of threescore \nand ten. After whispering me all my life, and \ndrawing me on to be her crowned poet, fame has \ndeluded me. To me, my own faculties have not \nalways been true. What is there has been true \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 411 \n\nto me ? My relatives, my friends, the public, my \npatrons, fame, \xe2\x80\x94 yea! and my genius, \xe2\x80\x94 these \nall have been false to me. To me, all things in \nlife have been treacherous ; and so why should \ndeath be true ? Of all things, why should only \ndeath be true to me ? Me it will be sure to \nmock, some way or other. But it may be, \xe2\x80\x94 it \nis, \xe2\x80\x94 it must be, \xe2\x80\x94 O, it is I myself am the mock- \nery, and the falsehood, and the delusion. My \nmind is a mirror with a flaw in it, and things can- \nnot be true to it ; they cannot look right in it. \nO the strangeness of my make ! Ah, well ! but \nthere is this now. Life is bright to all other \nmen, but to me it is gloomy, and always has \nbeen ; and so perhaps what is painful to others in \ndeath will be pleasant to me. And so it will \nbe ; for I feel my spirit invited into death ; but \nother men have their souls shrink from it, ay, and \nfrom the very shadow and the thought of it. I \nknew it, \xe2\x80\x94 my soul is not as other souls are. \nBut \xe2\x80\x94 Fool, fool, that I have been ! Again, \nagain, \xe2\x80\x94 O this destiny of mine ! \xe2\x80\x94 again must I \nbe an exception to the whole world, and for the \nworse. Others feel towards death as an enemy ; \nbut it is to find him their friend. So says what \nmust be believed. But I do not fear death, and \nso he will prove terrible to me. Fearful and \nfalse he will be to me. But I will not think it, \nand, indeed, I ought not, because it is not for me \n\n\n\n412 EUTHANASY. \n\nto think any thing positively, because I was phre- \nnetic once, I know. And this misgiving about \ndeath may be mere frenzy, and I suspect it is ; \n\xe2\x80\x94 yes, and I will believe so, I will think so. I \nhave been mad with misery once, and so God \nhelp me ! My experience of life has been horri- \nble ; at least I think it has. And, indeed, I can- \nnot be sure what it has been at all ; for this life \nis a half-sentence ; and the end of it is not to be \nread in this world, and so one cannot tell how it \nwill read. My existence as yet, my deeds, my \nattempts, and my sufferings, are like the four half- \nlines that Virgil wrote against the palace of Au- \ngustus ; for it is what is to come after them that \nwill make their meaning ; and what that is I can- \nnot tell yet. Again, O holy and blessed appear- \nance ! yet again before I die ! O, unworthy of \nit I am ! I am unworthy the sight. For only \njust now I have allowed my soul to cloud and \ndarken with distrust, and my lips are still moist \nwith the breath of words murmured in discontent \nabout what my earthly lot has been, when indeed \nI know only what my life has seemed, while \nwhat it will prove to have been is not for me \neven to guess. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nOften the yellowness of disease, and the white- \nness of hunger, and the transparency of consump- \ntion, are the illuminated beginning of what reads \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 413 \n\non into a patent of immortality for man ; and \nthere are many in heaven, for whom in that writ- \ning the first is a red letter, having been colored- \nso with the blood of their martyrdom. \n\nTASSO. \n\nFor my poet\'s work I have not had a hod- \nman\'s pay, \xe2\x80\x94 I have not, I have not. For \nmany, many years, men gladdened themselves \nwith my fancies, but not one of them ever re- \njoiced me. To houses without number my books \nhave been like a theatre, in which the inhabitants \nhave amused themselves at will ; and like a libra- \nry, in which from time to time they have inform- \ned themselves with thought and feeling ; and like \na tower of refuge for them against enemies, for in \nreading my verses they have forgotten their woes. \nTo many hundreds I have been all this ; but \nwhat have they been to me ? Neglect, envy, and \nmalice. Gates do not shut out anxieties ; but I \nhave shut out cares from many a man\'s mind \nmany a time ; from many a prince\'s mind I have ; \nand often I have been let want the food and lodg- \ning of a door-keeper. My miseries do not grieve \nme to remember. But that I could not be un- \nderstood, could not be loved, \xe2\x80\x94 it is this dis- \ntresses me. For till just now, they had all been \nungrateful to me, \xe2\x80\x94 all my acquaintance, and my \nreaders, and my countrymen. \n\n\n\n414 ETJTHANASY. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nAnd have not they all been ungrateful to God ? \nHave you never thought of that, \xe2\x80\x94 never thought \nthat in that respect you are standing towards the \nworld in the same way as God ? And then, in \nthis world, the greater a man is, the more he is \nmisprized at first. Has it not been so nearly \nalways ? Was it not so with the philosophers, \nand the poets, and the prophets of old time ? \n\nTASSO. \n\nYes, yes ! I see them, the great ones. With \nthe eyes of the spirit, I see them. And they \npass in company before me, \xe2\x80\x94 the thinkers of \nthe world, and the sufferers of it. And there is \none seems to reproach me, and another pities me, \nbecause I have grudged entire brotherhood with \nthem. That high and solemn fellowship of yours \nI have sinned against. O ye members of it, \nbrothers of my spirit, pity me and pardon me ! \npardon me, for I have been selfish. Round your \nbrows there is a halo, and on mine I have hoped \nto wear the same ; while from your pathway of \nthorns on this earth I have shrunk and wished to \nturn aside. O ye glorified sufferers of this world, \nforgive me ! \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nAnd is not there known in this earth a name \nwhich is above every name, and have you not \nknown how that name was first received ? And \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 415 \n\namong men, always, has not God over all been \nmost forgotten of all ? Your countrymen have \nbeen ungrateful to you for your bright and beau- \ntiful thoughts ; but have they, many of them, been \ngrateful to God for sunshine and starlight ? You \nhave been forgotten, Torquato, and so has the \ngoodness of God been. But the Lord is slow to \nanger, and it is of his mercy the world is not con- \nsumed. \n\nTASSO. \n\nO wretch that I have been, and profane, to \nhave breathed God\'s air and made it into mur- \nmurs against his Providence ! Ah ! I should have \nborne with my fellow-men the better, had I \nthought of God\'s forbearing me. Yes, and now \nI see in life a man cannot be discontented, unless \nagainst God. O God ! pardon my thoughtless- \nness, for it has been great and wicked. But \nindeed I could not always think aright ; for I was \nin want, in great want sometimes, and indeed \noften. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nYou have wanted bread in St. Anne\'s hospital \noften, and often in villages and towns. \n\nTASSO. \n\nAh ! you know that, you do know that ! I am \nglad you do. It was hard with me ; was it not ? \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nSuffering is perfection to the Christian, and to \nthe poet it is wisdom and glory. \n\n\n\n416 \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nTASSO. \n\nWhen I asked the world for bread, there was \ngiven me a stone, often. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nSo often, that out of those stones you have \nbuilt for yourself a monument in the world on \nwhich to have your name inscribed for ever. \n\nTASSO. \n\nO, now for that assurance the blessed God be \nthanked ! for it means \xe2\x80\x94 does it not ? \xe2\x80\x94 that men \nhereafter will hold me dear. I do not care for \nhonor now ; but I do wish to be loved, and it is \nwhat my soul craves. I have never known a \nman I do not long to have love me. But men \nhave not known me often ; they have thought \nthey have, but they have not, and so they have \nnot liked me much. Though some have loved \nme without knowing me ; the poor have. Yes, \nthey have been kind to me many times, \xe2\x80\x94 often, \n\xe2\x80\x94 always, almost. In the Apennines, I have \nheard them sing verses of mine more than once. \nThere is not a cottage there, but I could wish \nmy name to live in. For the people there have \nJiard hands, and are brown in the face with the \nsun ; but they have love in their eyes, and they \nhave voices that do not deceive. I have been \noften healed of my melancholy, for a time, by a \npeasant\'s hand laid on my shoulder, or by his \nwife\'s looking in my face. For once I was much \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 417 \n\nwith cottagers, dependent on them for food and \nshelter. That was when I was an outcast from \ncourt and city, and wandering over Italy afoot. \n\nmy wasted manhood ! But it was by others \nit was wasted, not by me. Was my genius only \nmy concern ? It was intrusted to me ; but it \nought to have been fostered by others ; but it was \nnot. And I, \xe2\x80\x94 I did what I could with it ; and \n\n1 could not do more. In anxiety about a meal \nfrom day to day, I spent thought which the \nwhole world ought to have been the better for for \never. For years I had to walk in the darkness \nof poverty, and so I had to use like a lantern the \ngenius that might have risen on all Italy like a \nsun, had I been treated rightly at that court of \nFerrara. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nBy your ill usage there, the world is the worse, \nperhaps, but not you, Torquato. For do not you \nremember in your youth what your pride was as \xe2\x80\x9e \na courtier, and your ambition of place ? It was \nwell for you that you failed of your wishes, or \nyou would have become vain, and so your genius \nwould have failed you. There was a time when \nyou were near valuing men for their power more \nthan their goodness, and for their honors more than \nfor the way they got them. And so your love of \nman was changing into lust of grandeur. And as \na poet, what would you have been without love ? \n27 \n\n\n\n418 EUTHAXAST. \n\nand without love, what would you be as a Chris- \ntian, to die ? Your heart was hardening ; but \nsorrow softened it, and kept it soft ; and in the \ncompany of the poor, it was moulded anew and \nbetter. And so now your feelings are youthfully \nfresh, and poetically pure, and as strong as ever. \nIt was well the court, and life at it, became hate- \nful to you ; for what your feelings were becoming \nonce, do you not remember now, Torquato ? \n\nTASSO. \n\nRemember ! remember ! I remember ! And \nit is a horror, all of it. My relatives, my ac- \nquaintances, and my patrons used me so ill for so \nlong, that I have been sick of life. And there \nhave been moments in which immortality has felt \nto me like a weary thought. God will forgive \nme this, because my spirit was diseased and \ncould feel nothing healthily. For it was at a \ntime when I wanted sympathy, and bread, and \nsome little provision against old age ; and out of \nso many thousand persons, there was no one to \noffer me these things. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nYou suffered by that ; and so did your neglect- \ners, and worse than yourself; for they missed \nbecoming famous, and they failed of being Chris- \ntian by not helping you. A cup of cold water \ngiven to a Christian is not without a reward. \nBut he that gets the love of a Christian poet wins \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 419 \n\nmore than a throne, and what kingdoms would \nnot buy. \n\nTASSO. \n\nO God ! that some others had judged like that. \nAnd I should have been happy then. But she \nthat was my life would still have died, \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps \nshe would ; but that would not have frenzied me ; \nit would have made me a mourner all my days ; \nbut that sorrow I should have felt like God\'s \nhand upon me, like a loving touch. But that her \nbrother\'s tyranny debarred me of Leonora, and \nimprisoned me from the sight of her, \xe2\x80\x94 this was \nwhat maddened me. And I was mad ; for years \nI was. O those many lost years, the best of my \nlife that ought to have been, and the brightest of \nmy genius that should have been ! Why, O, \nwhy were they darkened so ? Are there many \nsuch minds as mine in Italy ? Is there now, or \nfifteen years since was there, another Torquato \nTasso in Ferrara, or in Rome, in Florence, in \nMilan, or in Venice ? From among a million, I \nwas to write the Jerusalem Delivered ; and from \namong a million, I was to be phrenetic. First \none thing happened to me, and then another, and \nthen I was hated, and then there was nobody I \ncould trust ; and so I went mad. And it was at \na time when the laurel was in leaf out of which \nmy poet\'s crown might have been wreathed. \nBut it was not to be. The laurel-leaves would \n\n\n\n420 EUTHANAST. \n\nhave withered on my brow, it grew so hot. And \nit was as though a voice had come out against \nme, \xe2\x80\x94 " Frenzy for thee, Torquato, instead of \nfame." My mind might have been the home of \nsplendors, and the birthplace of glories for men ; \nbut it became confusion, a lurking-place for sus- \npicions, a horror of darkness, and an atmosphere \nof infinite melancholy. Like deadly mist off the \nCampagna, and more thickly than that, must my \nsins have -gone up to heaven, for them in their \nfalling to have rained into my soul, as it were, \nfire and brimstone, burning, and blackening, and \nwasting it. Is it over yet ? is it all over ? Is \nthe air clear between me and heaven ? and is \nthere no cloud that may drench my soul in de- \nstruction yet ! Me God made a poet ; and \nhe lit up in my mind a light which other men \nhave not ; and perhaps it was to light me to other \nduties than theirs ; and I have not gone after \nthem. And so I have sinned worse than other \nmen. And my miseries have been my punish- \nment ; but not all of it, perhaps. There is more \nto come yet, and the heaviest part, perhaps. O \nmy God ! my God ! then do not thou let me \nremember the past, but in mercy make me for- \nget it. \n\nSPIEIT. \n\nWas it for his crimes St. Paul suffered the \nloss of all things ? Was it under God\'s ven- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 421 \n\ngeance Stephen died crushed and bleeding on the \nground ? And the army of martyrs, \xe2\x80\x94 were they \nsinners above all other men ? \n\nTASSO. \n\nO, but I have been perverse ! Loving chas- \ntisements I have called the sufferings of others ; \nbut I have been impatient under my own, as \nthough they were heavy vengeance on me. But \nindeed my sorrows have been, some of them, \nwhat do not often happen. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nAnd in your genius you have had the use of a \nlight that is not often given in the world\'s dark- \nness. , \n\nTASSO. \n\nIt was losing that awhile which has been my \ngreatest loss, and now it is my most painful re- \nmembrance ; for I shudder at my mind\'s having \ndarkened, perhaps, with its own sinfulness, or in \nGod\'s anger, perhaps. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nIt was in neither ; but it was for good, \xe2\x80\x94 the \ngood of others chiefly, but also for your own. It \nwas for good ; and it was good. Over the eye- \nlids of her child asleep in the daylight, a mother \ndraws the coverlet ; and it is in her love. But \nover the eyes of your waking understanding, when \nthe veil was drawn, it was done in love that is \ninfinite. Be you sure of it. A spectacle to men \n\n\n\n422 ETJTHANASY. \n\nwere you ? You were, and such as no other man \ncould have been. Was your madness a strange \nthing to hear of ? It was ; and men minded it ; \nand by thinking of it, they, some of them, felt \nanew the mysteriousness of their being. Irrelig- \nious men heard of you, and were thrilled ; and \nthey felt again those roots of the spirit of which \nthe Godhead is the soil ; and so their souls re- \nvived. Does not the Lord say that all souls are \nhis ? And so they are, and your soul shows it. \nAnd how souls do not live of themselves, but in \nGod, has been more believingly felt by many, for \ntheir having seen darkness come and go across \nyour mind, you yourself helpless against it. A \nstar or two may be obscured, and men not heed \nit ; but over all Italy your mind was like a sun, \nand at the eclipse of it men thought of God. \n\nTASSO. \n\nSpeak on, speak on. My God ! my God ! I \n\nthank thee. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nYou have suffered, Torquato, and greatly, and \nas few ever suffer. But the thought of that \nshould calm, and not trouble you. For have you \nwritten nothing, said nothing, done nothing wrong? \nYou can remember \xe2\x80\x94 cannot you ? \xe2\x80\x94 a hundred \nthings, for the least of which you would be glad \nto suffer for days and weeks if only it might \nbe undone, and be as though it had never been. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 423 \n\nBut this is what could not be. And, indeed, \nlike night, evil has its use in this world ; though \nalas for them by whom much of it comes ! Do \nnot understand your great afflictions as meaning \nthat you have been much worse than other men ; \nbut rather than that, let your many sorrows as- \nsure you that you are not of those who have \nsinned against men more largely than suffered \nwith them. \n\nTASSO. \n\nGod ! against thee it was my ignorance that \nrepined ; and thou wilt pardon it, wilt thou not ? \nO merciful One ! wilt thou not ? Nay, but it is \nof thy mercy there has been vouchsafed to me \nthis knowledge of thy Providence. And this \nmercy of thine is an earnest of forgiveness : so I \nfeel it. Lord ! my spirit yearns to thee now in \ntrust and love. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nAnd the more tenderly so for what your sor- \nrows have been. \n\nTASSO. \n\nO that I had felt years ago what I feel now ! \nAnd why did not I ? Why had I not this knowl- \nedge against the time of my affliction ? \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nYou could not have had it against your suffer- \nings, because it was to come through them. For \nthere is a wisdom that in this world only comes \n\n\n\n424 EUTHANASY. \n\nwith sorrow. And in virtue there is what only a \nmourner is so blessed as to reach. Of all the \nsouls you have known, Torquato, have not the \nafflicted been the gentlest, and those that have \nsorrowed most been the most firmly believing ? \nAnd by whom have the best words in this world \nbeen spoken ? As you know, by those who had \nunder foot the ashes of their living martyrdoms. \n\nTASSO. \n\nGlory to them ! for round them the world \nroared and glowed like a furnace of affliction ; \nand, asbestos-like, their souls were but whitened \nin the fire. And, my God ! glory to thee in the \nhighest ! Glory to thee, with my whole glad \nheart ! My God ! my God ! how strong my \nspirit grows with thanking thee ! Now I can \nhope, now I can trust ; and I will, world without \nend, do with me what God will. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nGod does nothing but what the soul may trust in. \n\nTASSO. \n\nAnd what my soul shall trust in now, though \nthe stars darken at it, and the moon turn like \nblood. But, indeed, worse appearances than \nthese I have outlived, and worse, perhaps, than I \nshall ever know again. Abandoned of men I \nhave been ; and I have almost feared I was aban- \ndoned of God. My soul has craved for another \nsoul to know it, and not been known ; I prayed \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 425 \n\nfor peace, long, long before it came to me ; and, \nflat on the ground, I have wept like an only and \nan orphan child, till, in my wretchedness, the cold \nearth under me has felt like the bosom of a dead \nmother. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nBut there was on you then the eye of your Fa- \nther in heaven ; and now you will be the happier, \nthe longer that eye rests on you ; for to feel it is \nto have the soul brighten with its light, and warm \nwith its love, and gladden with the infinite blessed- \nness that is in it. \n\nTASSO. \n\nO, it is all glorious with God, \xe2\x80\x94 the future is. \nAnd the past will not be so painful to me, now \nthat you have pitied it. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nThen it may be a blessed thing for you to think \nof; for, Torquato, God has pitied it. \n\nTASSO. \n\nO God ! Thou blessed, blessed God ! \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nIn pain, man feels himself a soul ; and through \nagony, when rightly borne, he gets to know him- \nself akin to spiritual greatness. Out of the ground \nthe food of the body is got with the sweat of the \nbrow. And the bread that came down from \nheaven, \xe2\x80\x94 is it not man\'s through the blood of \nJesus Christ ? \n\n\n\n426 EUTHANASY. \n\nTASSO. \n\nThrough the precious blood of Christ. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nAnd mortality never has immortal truth grow \nin it, but in pain. The spirit gains on the body \nin pain ; and it is in pain that men die out of this \nworld into the other. The books of the prophe- \ncies are the treasures of the world now ; but of \nthe prophets themselves, there was not one but \nwas persecuted. There is not a noble feeling but \nbegan with some one who had died to the world \nin agony before his living in the spirit. And \nthere is not a gentle thought but is tender with \nsome one\'s sorrow. Yes ! and any time, on any \nmatter, when the word of the Lord comes, seldom \ndoes it get spoken, but through the self-sacrifice \nof some believing soul. \n\nTASSO. \n\nO, you are a spirit from on high, and your \nwords sublime me. And, as you said, these \nthings of earth have been looked into from heav- \nen, and been pitied. \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nAnd been gloried in, too. Of the millions of \nsouls that are ushered into this earth, the birth \nof every one is a joy in heaven, though with \ntrembling, on account of its being made subject \nto vanity. But there is a warmer interest in \nthose greater souls that are born, only one or two \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEIITHANASY. 427 \n\nin a generation ; for their greatness is great ca- \npacity, and that of woe as well as bliss, and of sin \nas well as goodness ; and then, in their wrestles \nwith doubt and despair, they can be but little \nhelped by others. Over one sinner ending his \nsinfulness, there is joy in heaven ; and there is \nmore than that over one with whom mortality is \nending, \xe2\x80\x94 some greater soul, that has been more \ngreatly tried, \xe2\x80\x94 a man, after all his wrongs, with \na heart of love, and eyes of faith, \xe2\x80\x94 and, besides, \nwho has the peace of God in his mind, and on \nhis lips words that men are the better for. You \nlook doubtingly ; but it is of yourself that I have \nbeen speaking, Torquato. \n\nTASSO. \n\nOf me ! O, of me ! \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nHave you never considered what the way of \nProvidence is with the souls of men, though you \nare yourself one of its greater agents ? Life is a \nlesson from God ; but the meaning of it is what \nmen have to be taught by one another, the child \nby its parent, and the young man by his elders. \nNature is God about you. It is a great truth ; \nbut most men see only as much of it as is shown \nthem. And who are they that show it ? The \npoets who are raised up from time to time. As, \nage after age, men have their understandings en- \nlarged, there are those born who can speak the \n\n\n\n428 EUTHANASY. \n\ngreater thoughts that are wanted, and who, by- \nsaying what they feel themselves, make others \nfeel more nobly. These are the interpreters of \nGod to man ; and some of them have been known \nas theologians, and some as philosophers, and \nsome as poets, and some as prophets. And, \nTorquato, you yourself are one among them. \nYes, among souls, your spiritual estate is become \nlike a principality and a power. \n\nTASSO. \n\nI become a power among spirits ! Then it is \nby suffering I have grown strong. And God be \nthanked I did suffer. O ye years of agony ! By \nyou I was set apart from among men ; but it was \nfor my consecration. My baptism of fire ! bless- \ned for ever and ever be the season of it ! What ! \nDo I \xe2\x80\x94 Can it be ? It is. Yes, it is you, Le- \nonora. My life, my love ! Your hand, Leono- \nra ; give me your hand. O, I cannot feel it ! \nBut your presence I do feel ; into my soul I feel \nit, \xe2\x80\x94 and so strangely, so blessedly ! But why \nhave not I known you before, though always my \nspirit has trembled in me ? Tell me, dearest Le- \nonora, why have not I known you sooner ? \n\nSPIRIT. \n\nYou would not have known me now, but for \nyour greater faith. The more God is believed \nin, the better his ministers are known. You have \nunderstood pain and misfortune as having been \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 429 \n\nsent to you from God ; and so all other messen- \ngers are easy for you to recognize. And so it is \nthat I have been known to you, Torquato, \xe2\x80\x94 my \nTorquato. \n\nTASSO. \n\nGone ! She is gone ; and how suddenly ! \nGone into heaven she is, for I saw her enter ; and \nas she went in, she smiled and pointed with her \nhand. And as I looked, I saw spirits standing \ntogether, \xe2\x80\x94 cherubim and seraphim, the spirits \nof love and of understanding, \xe2\x80\x94 and some with \npalms in their hands, like martyrs. And there \nwas one like Dante ; and still his look is thought- \nful, but happy also, and like the face of one who \nsees into some mystery of God, how joyful it is. \nThe brightness in which those spirits stood to- \ngether was like twilight to the infinite splendor \nbeyond. It was as though they were waiting \nthere for some soul freshly coming out of this \ndark earth. And it was for me perhaps, \xe2\x80\x94 O, \nperhaps for me ! Come over me, death ! thou \ndelicious change ! For thou art immortality, and \nheaven, and sight of Leonora. Ay, she, \xe2\x80\x94 O, \nshe has gone through this change that is changing \nme ! And through her, death is grown sweet ; \nfor it is to where she is that my spirit is being \ndrawn. Ah, Leonora ! I do not see her. But \nshe is in God, and so am I, and my death will be \nthrough God. Yes ! blessed be the God who is \n\n\n\n430 EUTHANASY. \n\nin her, and in me, and in our love for one anoth- \ner ! He is in all things, and in death. And so, \nas the eyes of a believer open, all things grow \nbeautiful, very beautiful, and death becomes di- \nvine. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 431 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI. \n\n" O dreary life ! " we cry, " O dreary life ! " \n\nAnd still the generations of the birds \n\nSing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds \n\nSerenely live while we are keeping strife \n\nWith Heaven\'s true purpose in us, as a knife \n\nAgainst which we may struggle. Ocean girds \n\nUnslackened the dry land : savannah swards \n\nUn weary sweep : hills watch, unworn ; and rife, \n\nMeek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees, \n\nTo show above the unwasted stars that pass \n\nIn their old glory. O thou God of old ! \n\nGrant me some smaller grace than comes to these ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut so much patience as a blade of grass \n\nGrows by, contented, through the heat and cold. \n\nE. B. Browning. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO this westerly wind and sunshine ! How \nthe white clouds drive, and the poplar-leaves \nglance and rustle ! Every breath is health this \nmorning. So lofty and so blue the sky is, and \nsuch fresh thoughts one has in looking up at it. \nIt is poetry and religion to be in the open air \nto-day ; is it not ? It is as though God were \nabroad. What am I saying ? As though the \nDivinity were not omnipresent, and present al- \nways and everywhere alike ! I mean, this morn- \ning feels as Eden may have felt, when, in the \ncool of the day, Adam became sensible of the \nLord God\'s presence among the trees. \n\n\n\n432 ETJTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is a very pleasant morning. I looked for \nyou in the garden, Oliver. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIn autumn I do not much like the sight of a \ngarden. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is melancholy ; it certainly is. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe melancholy of the woods I like ; but in \nthe blighted prettiness of a garden there is no \npromise of a revival. But the woods look so \ngrandly in decay, that it is as though they knew \nof their being to be green again. So when I \nsaw how the dahlias were blackened with the \nfrost, and how one flower hung its head, and \nanother was dropped on to the ground, I came \nthrough the garden, and I have been sitting in the \nfield here and meditating. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat about ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSit on the bench here, and I will tell you, \nuncle. But I must remember first, which I do \nnot think I can very well. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nO, you have been dreaming, Oliver ; and \npleasantly, I hope. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo, I have not been dreaming, but only feel- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 433 \n\ning. I have been feeling like a portion of the \nscene about me, and as though my being were \nblended with that of the trees and the fields ; so \nthat the leaves fell as though through my spirit ; \nand it was not as though I heard with my ears \nthe robin sing, bur as though he sung within me. \nAnd I felt just as the trees and hedges and grass \nmight feel together, if they could know of their \nlife\'s subsiding into a wintry pause. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYellow, and then naked, and then as green \nagain as ever ! I ought not to have seen this in \nthe woods seventy times, without myself growing \nold the more cheerfully. It is a day for think- \ning, this is ; and every autumn, for a few days, \nit is as though there were a power in the air \nmaking us be thoughtful. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThe spirit of the season is on us, and it is \nas though from every thing about us we were \nwhispered, " Now know yourselves." And a \nvery seasonable warning it is, after the content- \nment that summer has given us, in health, and \nwarmth, and plenty, and light. Summer would \nmake us self-sufficient ; but autumn says to us, \nthat we are mortal : very mildly she speaks ; but \nif she is not minded, then the voice of winter is \nthe more terrific, when he comes roaring out of \nthe north. And if a man dies at the coming of \n28 \n\n\n\n434 EUTHAXASY. \n\nwinter, he dies the more mournful if he has not \ntalked quietly with the autumn just gone. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nPoor man ! But we do not any of us feel as \nwe ought, that here we have no continuing city. \n\nAUBIW. \n\nExcept on a day like this. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nAy, this is an old man\'s day. \n\nAUBIX. \n\nAnd an invalid\'s. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nThe leaves are fading about us, and so the \nmore submissively do we ourselves fade as a \nleaf. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, our feelings are soothed by nature about \nus ; and then, as soon as they are calmed, they \ngrow hopeful of themselves, and our walk among \nthe dead leaves becomes triumphant, and we say \nthat we know that our Redeemer lives. \n\nMAEHA3I. \n\nAmong the works of God our feelings get \nsoothed, and grow prophetic of immortality ; \nbut not so among the works of men, not so in \ntowns. In a town every thing is so noisy and \nbustling ; and it is as though there were not much \nthought in it fit for an old man to have, and not \nmuch feeling about it that he can well share in. \n\n\n\nETJTHANAST. 435 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYet men grow old in towns, and faster than in \nthe country, perhaps. And in a large city, the \nclock never strikes twice in the hearing of the \nsame population ; for within the hour, a child has \nbeen born and some soul has been taken. O, in \nthe sight of God who sees it all, how the popula- \ntion of a city must be ever changing ! In one \nhome there is a babe just born, and in the next \nhouse is stretched the cold length of a corpse. \nAlways there is one generation going, and another \ncoming. So that in a -city the inhabitants may \nbe as many as ever, but they are never the same, \neven for a few hours. Year by year, and hour \nby hour, the population renews itself ; the son in \nthe place of the father, and youth out of decay. \nNow, in an aged heart, is there no sympathy with \nthis ? Nay, in this life of a city, ever fresh and \nstrong, is not there something like the immortality \nof the soul ? is not there what shows how the \ninward spirit may renew itself through the very \nperishing of the outward form ? For in some \ncities, energy, wisdom, frankness, friendliness, \nand little peculiarities of mind, are the same from \nage to age, while the men, and the buildings, and \nthe streets, are changing every day. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYour faith is like an evergreen, for it is always \nso fresh ; and in the smoke of a city it does not \nfail, but even there it smells of the country. \n\n\n\n436 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhy, uncle, you are quite figurative. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAm I, Oliver, am I ? Well, then, more ex- \nactly, your faith seems to me like ivy, which not \nonly mantles human homes and keeps them \nwarm, and makes them beautiful, but which \nclimbs round old castles, and lives on their walls, \nmaking it seem as though the very stones are \nnot so dead but that life is to be had out of them. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWell, uncle, well ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIvy is the beauty of old ruins ; and your faith \nis not unlike it, for it springs up so strongly from \namidst fallen hopes. But just now you said you \ndid not like the sight of a garden in autumn ; why \ndo not you ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nBecause it is only melancholy. For within \nthe fence of a garden, decay is not wide enough \nto be sublime. But in the fields and woods, it is. \nThere, decay is so vast as to be grand. And \nat any sublime sight, the soul feels herself immor- \ntal. For whether purely, or justly, or kindly, or \ndevoutly, the more we feel, the more certainly \nimmortal we feel. And in such experiences \nthere is what is worth regard, ay, and thanks- \ngiving, \xe2\x80\x94 special thanks to God. For often our \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 437 \n\nholiest efforts are discouraged ; and while making \nsome of our loftiest attempts, it is as though we \nwere spoken to by God ; and as though he said \nto us, " Fear not ; for it is into my bosom you \nare striving ; be nothing chilled." And then, for \na ^ew moments, there is the warmth of immortal- \nity about our souls. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo that we feel best what we are to be, when \nwe are what we ought to be. A gust of wind ! \nDown come the leaves ! \n\nLike leaves on trees the race of man is found, \nNow green in youth, now withering on the ground. \nSo generations in their course decay, \nSo perish these, when those have passed away. \n\nAnd long, long ago perished Homer and his lis- \nteners. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nPerished ? Not he ! For, to our knowledge, \nthe very words of his mouth are living. And his \nIliad is brotherhood for Homer with men of all \nnations and times. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAy, and with ourselves. The leaves fall about \nus just as he heard them fall ; and the same \nthoughts come into our minds as did into his with \nthe sound ; and we think how, from the tree of \nlife, human existences are for ever being loosened \nand shed like leaves. \n\n\n\n\n438 ETJTHANASY. \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nHow the air smells of dead leaves ! Decay, \ndecay, everywhere decay ! All things, every- \nwhere, look exhausted. So that to-day feels like \na day out of some Greek Olympiad, or as though \nit had been kept for us out of some Egyptian \ncycle, or Chaldean year. For all things do feel \nso old ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTo you, do they, Oliver ? It is the melan- \ncholy of the season, and the reverie that comes \nof the warm, still day. You had been sitting here \nsome time when I found you. What had you \nbeen thinking of ? Your thoughts were \n\nAUBIN. \n\n* They were with the men of old time, with the \npopulation of Nineveh and Babylon, and the \nbuilders of the Pyramids, and the dwellers of \nEnoch, the first city. I have been thinking how \nthis earth has been sailed upon by the Phoenicians, \nbeen travelled about by Abraham and his camels, \nbeen traversed and fought on by Roman armies, \nbeen swept over by Goths and Huns from the \nNorth, and always from east to west been the \npathway of civilization. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is a curious thought, what this earth has \nbeen in different ages of it, \xe2\x80\x94 the pasture-ground \nof the patriarchs, the quarry of Egyptian builders, \nand the battle-field of the Romans. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOnce this earth was the floor of the bridal \nbower of Adam and Eve, and many nights that \nwas all it was to all mankind. But now it is the \ncornfield, and the meadow, and the garden, and \nthe hearth of many million families. And it is \nbecome besides the graveyard of nations. Grave- \nyard, did I say ? Well, so it is ; and it is the \nbirthplace of souls as well. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it is ; so it is ! Yes, it is ! I am wonder- \ning what it is, Oliver, that makes what you say be \nso very persuasive of an hereafter. I cannot tell \nwhether it is your voice, or what it is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, we will thank God that \xe2\x80\x94 But come \nhow it may \xe2\x80\x94 Dear uncle, what I mean is, that \n* into a mind not superstitious, whatever way faith \ncomes, it cannot but come rightly. And I would \nsay this ; that there is a state of mind \xe2\x80\x94 and I \nthink it is a reasonable and a right state of mind \n\xe2\x80\x94 in which nearly every human circumstance is \nsuggestive of immortality, \xe2\x80\x94 even those matters, \nI mean, that are thought the gloomiest. And so \nthe universality of death is to me the certainty of \nlife after it. \n\nMARKAM. \n\nBut from some poets one might learn that the \nuniformity of death is the frightfulness of it. \n\n\n\n440 EUTHANAST. \n\n\n\nAUBIN. \n\nAy, death makes no exceptions. Righteous- \nness is cut down uncrowned ; honesty perishes \nwithout having proved the best policy ; men that \ncalled on God die unanswered ; and many a dis- \nciple dies, with many a Christian promise not \nkept to him. Now these are the things that make \nexistence feel unfinished at death. And so it is \nthat many things that are untoward in this life \npoint toward another. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThey do ; so they do. Down come the leaves \nagain ! O, what a shower of them ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so, because we men fall like them, we \ncannot rot like them. Good men die as early as \nthe bad ; and if one bad man dies the sooner for \nhis vice, there is a good man dies the earlier for \nhis virtue, for his self-denial, and his poverty ; \nfor poverty is not the less killing for having been \nnobly incurred. Good and bad look alike in \ndeath, and so death itself cannot be what it looks. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIf death makes good and bad be alike, then it \nis only a seeming, or else for a very little while ; \nthat is your meaning, is not it ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nDeath is not- what it looks ; cannot be and \nmust not be believed so. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 441 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nCannot be and must not be ! And saying so, \ndo we know what we do say ? Because death is \nGod\'s causing. And as regards Providence, \nwhat must or must not be is not for man to say. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOut of his self-will it is not. As to death, man \ncannot speak out of his own knowledge ; but he \ncan and may out of the spirit of God. For in \ngood men, the Spirit itself does bear witness with \ntheir spirits. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIn the saints of God it does. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd in all disciples, according as they are more \nor less Christian. In yourself, uncle, there is \nthe witness of the Spirit : there is, I know, for \nsometimes I hear it speaking in your voice. Un- \ncle, there are persons dead, about whom I have \nfeelings which I dare not distrust. Once I was in \nthe death-chamber of a sufferer for righteousness\' \nsake, \xe2\x80\x94 a man that had died in his virtue. My \nfeelings were of awe and triumph ; and while in \nthe room, every breath was like inspiration in me, \nand I said, u I know that his Redeemer liveth." \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA friend of yours, was not he ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. The day he was buried was just \n\n\n\n442 ETJTHANASY. \n\nsuch a day as this. He was buried under an \nelm-tree, and the leaves fell on to the coffin and \ninto the grave softly, and so fast ! It was as \nthough nature were grieving over him. And, \nindeed, he was a man whose love the very trees \nmight miss. For in his eyes they were more than \nwood and leaves ; and what Moses saw in one \nbush, he saw something of in every forest and \nshrub. And for him, there was not a tree but \nhad burning in it the presence of God. \n\nMARRAM. \n\nThat manner of sight I should be sure he had \nfrom you. A good man, a very good man, he \nwas ; so I have heard you say. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd so he was : and he died in his goodness, \nand almost through it. And at his grave-side, \nmy thoughts asked, \' \' Why was this ? for cannot \ngoodness be so good as that none should be the \nworse for it any way ? " There was no answer \nmade me but silence ; though for a thinker that is \nenough. And as I turned away from the grave, \nthere was in me what was like the Divine voice \nasking, " About what I am designing to do with \nyou mortals, why art thou doubtful ? for hast thou \nnot known me ? " And then I said to myself, \n" Ay, why at all do I doubt God ? For justice \nand goodness in me are his inspiration, and they \nprophesy of what his Providence will do. Yes, \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 443 \n\nand God will be better than my goodness, and so \nmy friend will prove happier than my hopes." \nAnd so I grew cheerful, and left him \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Where his fathers sleep in their hillocks green. \n\n.* \n\nA beautiful line, is not it ? It is the Swedish \n\nTegner\'s. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd you have no exception to make to it ; \nhave not you ? I have none myself. But always \nyou will have it, that the real man is what no \ngraveyard ever gets ; for you so earnestly distin- \nguish between body and soul. But, indeed, it is \na very forcible line, and you may well like it. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nIt makes one feel as though in the grave there \nwere sleepers, but not dead bodies ; and as though \nthe earth were warm about them, and conscious \nof having them lie in her bosom. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMother-earth ! That fond phrase of the \nGreeks ! Mother-earth ! \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAy ! and cannot one imagine her crying to the \nFather of spirits, for pity on the dead bodies in \nher bosom, \xe2\x80\x94 children that have lost their breath, \nbut her children still ? And now if such a voice \nfrom earth to heaven could reasonably be, then \nalways it is as though it really were crying. And \n\n\n\n444 EUTHANASY. \n\nthere is in the mind of God the feeling that such \na cry would make ; for God not only answers \nprayer, but anticipates it. So that, from among \nher sister planets, whatever this earth could right- \nly pray for for,her children, already God is grant- \ning them, or else he is intending. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nMy prayer is pure ; O earth, cover not thou \nmy blood ! \xe2\x80\x94 So Job says, and then begs the \nearth not to silence his cry. In the Scriptures \nthere are many passages which are as though the \nearth could think and feel. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd as though she could speak. And, O, if \nshe could, if she could ! And if she did, for all \nthe sufferers in her ! If only men\'s sighs lived on \nthe air, we could not bear the sound. But it is \nas though God did hear what man would not bear \nto hear ; for to his nature it is possible, and to \nhis almightiness it would be endurable, and in \nthe ear of his foreknowledge it would be a sub- \nlime sound : for as he listens from everlasting to \neverlasting, it is as though voices that are anguish \none moment are crying aloud with all angels the \nnext. But, indeed, with God, past, present, and \nfuture are one ; and to his eyes, in the sowing of \ntears, there is ripe at once the golden harvest of \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 445 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAy, we will think of what our destiny looks to \nGod ; and that shall comfort us. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt ought to. And then we are members of a \nfamily. And so we will think what the human \nrace must be in the eyes of God, \xe2\x80\x94 dying, dying, \ndying everywhere, \xe2\x80\x94 spirits that have called upon \nhim, souls that have talked with him, men that \nhave felt themselves his children. And in death \ndo they all dissipate into nothing ? About this \nearth are stretched the arms of God ; and as he \nclasps it to himself, is it only an urn filling with \nhuman dust ? O, no ! God is infinite, and there \nmust be infinity in every purpose of his ; and man \nis the only creature through whom that infinity \ncan be answered in this world. A world made \nfor nothing ! That is not to be thought of. And \nmade for nothing it will have been, without man \nis immortal. In all probability, and in all cer- \ntainty, this earth will perish, and so will every \ndaisy, and oak-tree, and animal, and bird, and \nfish ; and all will be as though this world had never \nbeen, unless there is a survivorship of souls. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd that there will be. Blessed be God ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAy, and through our souls, through what we \nhave had to do with it, through what it has been \n\n\n\n446 EUTHANASY. \n\nto us, through our memories, the earth itself is \neternal, and so, again, has not been made in vain. \nEither this world is a folly, or man is immortal. \nMan\'s future life is the wisdom of the universe ; \nand so doubt it we must not, and we cannot. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOliver, dear Oliver, your words are too posi- \ntive. I do not mean that they are not most bless- \nedly true. But perhaps, as to what the Divine \npurpose in the world must be, we should not be \nconfident, but only confidently trustful. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, you are right. Still it is pleasant, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe way in which the end of the world points on \nto the immortality of man. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo as for herself not to have been made in \nvain, the earth asks another life for men, and one \nto outlast her own. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd it is theirs ; for it is promised them. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo many things are such witnesses of human \nimmortality ; even sin is, and in letters that are \nlike red iron in the dark. Often into a sinner \nthere is burnt what convinces him that his soul \nmay be changed, but can never, never die. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 447 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAwful, very awful proof of an hereafter ! and \nyet most of us can guess at it, out of our own ex- \nperience. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo we can. In the very abasement of our na- \nture, we are consciously immortal, and so we are \nin our highest moods. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut in them we may be deceived ; for they are \nour proudest. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI was thinking of those only that are our purest. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nRight. And it is certain that, whether visible \nor not, all souls must have in them foretokens of \ntheir infinite continuance. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nEspecially towards death ; some souls, as it \nwere, plainly going home, in going out of this \nworld. And there are some who die, and are \nfollowed by their works, and not only by them, \nbut by their righteous sufferings, \xe2\x80\x94 witnesses that \ncry aloud, along with the souls of the martyrs \nunder the altar, " How long, O Lord, holy and \ntrue, dost thou not judge ? " But judgment there \nwill be, and the day of it is appointed ; so we \ncan be patient, and be earnest in getting ready \nfor it. \n\n\n\n448 ET7THANASY. \n\nMAE.HABI. \n\nOliver, what are those verses you repeated last \nnight, when looking out of the window ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWhat I remember of a translation from Uhland. \nThey are expressive of impatience for death ; and \nyet I like them. They are what an old man \nmight well say, looking up at the stars on an au- \ntumn night, with the leaves falling about him. \n\ngolden legends writ in the skies ! \n\nI turn towards you with longing soul, \nAnd list to the awful harmonies \n\nOf the spheres, as on they roll. \n\nO hlessed rest ! royal night ! \n\nWherefore seemeth the time so long, \nTill I see yon stars in their fullest light, \n\nAnd list to their loudest song. \n\nIn the day we do not see the stars, but night brings \nus in sight of them ; and that night of nights, the \nnight of death, will carry us up to them, and \nthrough them, and beyond them, and into the \nbosom of the Father, as we may well believe. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAmen ! amen ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 449 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII. \n\nAnd is this all that man can claim ? \nIs this our longing\'s final aim ? \nTo be like all things round, \xe2\x80\x94 no more \nThan pebbles cast on Time\'s gray shore ? \n\nCan man no 1 more than beast aspire \nTo know his being\'s awful Sire ? \nAnd, born and lost on Nature\'s breast, \nNo blessing seek but there to rest ? \n\nJohn Sterling. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nI have been reading at the window here, and \nI think, Oliver, in two books at once, perhaps. \nFor my eyes have been straying, now and then, \nfrom this book of grace to the book of nature, \noutside. And, Oliver, I have been thinking, that \nit is only from my reading in the Scriptures that I \nfind myself encouraged to draw nigh to God. In \nthe book of nature there is little I can read to \nencourage me ; or I should rather say, perhaps, \nthere is very little encouragement there which I \ncan read of myself. For I cannot doubt that to \nJesus all nature was like the smile of God ; and \nto the Psalmist it would appear, sometimes, to \nhave been like God become plain about them. \nBut they are only the true children of God, on \nwhom nature does not frown as well as smile. \n29 \n\n\n\n450 ET7THAXASY. \n\nThere have been times when almost I could have \nwondered, that, with the heavens to spread him- \nself through, God should care about having a \nhuman heart for his temple. Oliver, I cannot \nwonder that some men have felt their own noth- \ningness so painfully, as to have had misgivings \ntoo strong for their faith sometimes. The noth- \ningness of man before the vastness of nature, \xe2\x80\x94 \nit is only a wise faith that can bear it, with the \nweight with which it sometimes weighs on some \nminds. And there has been an unbelief, which \nhas justified itself by asking scornfully what Da- \nvid would have asked with mingled feelings of \nhumbleness, awe, and trust, \xe2\x80\x94 What is man, any \nman, that God should regard him, while there are \nstars shining in the heavens, and while there are \nthe sun and moon of his making ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, the stars do not glorify God, except \nthrough the mind of man. The sun and moon \npraise God only with such rays as can enter the \ntemple of a man\'s soul. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nI do not understand you, Oliver ; at least, I \nthink I do not. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThere is no such thing as sound, outside of the \near. A noise is made by the air being made to \nvibrate ; but the vibrations of the air become \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 451 \n\nsound only by their striking on the drum of the \near. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes ; that is so, I suppose. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd not in a bird\'s or a dog\'s, but only in a \nman\'s ear, is Handel\'s Messiah the sublime mu- \nsic which it is. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWell, that is true. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd now what was the world before it could \nshape itself in the intelligent mind of man ? And \nbefore there was any ear at all, what was the \nworld, all round ? what else but silence ? Brooks \nran on noiseless beds, and rivers went over noise- \nless falls, and seas ebbed and flowed in silence. \nBreezes played without a whisper ; and winds, \nhigh winds, blew over plains and through forests, \nand not a sound did they make. The world was \na silent world, before the ear was made for hear- \ning. And over the earth there was no beauty, till \nthe human eye opened on it. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDo you mean, in the same way as music is not \nmusic, except in a human ear ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, and for the same reason as the world was \na silent world before the ear was fashioned for the \n\n\n\n452 EUTHANASY. \n\nair to vibrate on. And in this way it is only- \nthrough man that the stars glorify God. The sun \nand moon praise God through me. My soul is \nthe priest that nature worships through. The \nmountains are dumb, till what feelings they make \nin me speak out. The valleys rejoice before \nGod, only through what joy they make me glad \nwith. And the roar of the sea is a deep-toned \nanthem, only while my soul is like a temple for it \nto sound through. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nYes ! now I understand you. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe mountains are high, but they are not to \nbelittle me : and they are to humble me, only the \nsame wholesome way by which, myself, I feel all \nthe lowlier for my own high thoughts. Nor are \nthe stars to discourage me with their splendor ; as \nthough, in their brightness, I could be minded of \nGod only a little. For glorious as they are, they \nglorify God only by the thoughts they make me \nthink of him. And it is by their rays entering \ninto my worship that the sun and moon praise \nGod. Day and night, in forests, and in the \ndepths of the sea, over plains, on the sides of \nmountains, and up the regions of the air, God \nsees how good are all things of his making. But \nit is in the temple of man\'s soul, that he listens \nfor how they worship him. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 453 \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd to the door of that temple comes the Holy \nSpirit, too, at frequent seasons. A high thought, \nOliver, and yet not a proud one ! For it is very \nsad, and it is awful to think, how there are \nsouls God listens for praises in, while worship in \nthem there is none ; how, as temples, they are \nfoul with sin, and dark with ignorance, and are \nprofaned, day and night, with the hateful voice of \nfolly speaking in them, and with the riot of the \npassions. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nO, like the sacred quiet of a church is the \npeace which nature would make in the soul at \ntimes ! Out of woods and off lakes, and from \nover fields and meadows, there are thoughts, \nwhich might come into a man\'s mind, bright as \nangels out of heaven. Yes, and for all men there \nare high seasons, when influences from nature \nmight enter the soul and make in it a holy pres- \nence like that of angels met together, and a feel- \ning of praise sublime and various, like that of \nassembled multitudes, and a fervency of love to \nGod, that knows him draw nigh, O, so nigh to \nthe soul it is in ! And now this worship, \xe2\x80\x94 if \nthere is none in the soul, because it is wicked, \nthen what a fearful thing its wickedness is ! Only \nthrough my mind can things round me glorify \nGod ; and how dreadful a matter it is, if my mind \n\n\n\n454 ETTTHANASY. \n\nis so that it hardens itself against tender influences, \nand shuts itself against devout thoughts ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is ; it is very dreadful. Of earth and water, \nof day and night, of the four seasons, of the sun \nand moon and stars, \xe2\x80\x94 of all these in their wor- \nship I am a priest unto God. And if I am un- \nholy, if I am a faithless priest, then my sin, \xe2\x80\x94 my \nsin, \xe2\x80\x94 it is as wide as the world, and it reaches to \nthe sky. But what is this which I am saying ? \nSin is against God. And this is all awful consid- \nerations in one. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nSo it is. Yet, uncle, as you say, it is a dread- \nful thought, \xe2\x80\x94 that of a man\'s so imbruting in \nheart, as to become insensible to the atmosphere \nof worship he is living in. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAh, Oliver, too much it is as though the world \nwere only for our waking and sleeping in ; as \nthough the earth existed only for us to gather, and \nstore, and eat the fruits of it. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nWhile really there are uses of it, which are not \naccomplished in our stomachs. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nNor in our purses, Oliver, nor in the fleshly \nmind. \n\n\n\nEITTHANASY. 455 \n\nATJBIN. \n\nNor altogether and at once in even the holiest \nsoul. For the uses of the world will he unending. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd so not a moment of our lives, nor one \ncircumstance of them, is in vain. And this is \ngreat comfort to know of. What hours I spent \nat school still last on in my mind. What books \nI read many years ago still teach me, in some \nsecret way. And my inclinations now bend the \nway they do, from my resolutions of many years \nago. And as you said one day, Oliver, so it is. \nThere is an eternal purpose in the world, which \ngets answered in us ourselves, \xe2\x80\x94 in the gratitude \nto God, which autumn strengthens in us ; in the \nreverence of the Creator, which sun, moon, and \nstars make in us ; in the awe, with which mortality \npervades us ; and in the beauty, with which fair \nscenes imbue our souls. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nMy thought, uncle ; and you remember it as \nbeing so ! But the good expression of it, uncle, \nis your own, certainly. And it is as though the \nthought were fresh to me. But, uncle, I was \nmeaning to say, that I think there are other uses \nof the world to us than wc know of. I think \nit is likely there are uses to us of the world that \nnow is, which will begin to be felt, first one and \nthen another, only in the world that is to come. \n\n\n\n456 EUTHANASY. \n\nMAEHAlff. \n\nOliver, I am not sure that I understand you \nquite as clearly as I do commonly. \n\nAUBIX. \n\nHereafter there will be uses of this world \nwhich will begin in us, through our memories. \nI think there is no day so poor, but it is enrich- \ning me for ever. Hereafter it will prove, per- \nhaps, that often, and in the simplest way, great \nwonders are entering my mind without my know- \ning of them. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI think, Oliver, you can explain your thought \na little more clearly. \n\nAUBIIT. \n\nFor the world about us, we shall be the bet- \nter in more ways than we know of. Of the \nsounds we hear, and the objects we see, and \nof the matters that happen to us, even the com- \nmonest, more will come than we suppose. \nWinter and summer, whether I am well or \nill, of every day I live, there is an everlasting \nresult in me ; and so there is of every action \nI do ; and so there is of every sensation I \nhave, as I think. And I have so many thou- \nsand sensations in a day, and so many million in \na year ! And never is one of them over for ever, \nas I think. Possibly I may feel them all over \nagain ; and certainly there will be a something \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 457 \n\nof them last on in me, for ever and ever. They \nwill be a fountain of thought and feeling in me, \nfor ages. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes ; matters that are nothing to us now may \nbe very wonderful to us as spirits. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA rock may be itself but a mass of sandy \ngrains, and yet be the fountain of a stream, \nbright to look at, and sweet to drink, and a hun- \ndred miles long in its course, and green and \nflowery all along its banks. And from the recol- \nlections growing in us, there is to be a stream of \nprofit, I have no doubt. As a child, the feel- \ning I had for my father was the beginning of \nwhat I felt towards God. And there is many \na feeling made in us now by strangers to us, by \nour benefactors, and by our friends and relatives, \nthat will hereafter and in infinity be the beginnings \nof new, and dear, and sublime emotions in us. \nAnd all objects about us are turning to spiritual \nseed in our minds, with our hearing and seeing \nthem. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd God makes the good soil of the human \nmind be infinitely and very variously fruitful. \nWhat seed is sown in it now will grow to a \nglorious harvest hereafter, underneath the new \nheavens. \n\n\n\n458 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIn some age or other, I shall say of some \nheavenly marvel, perhaps, " It is wonderful, \nwonderful ! And yet in the earth it was hinted \nto me, by the tones of the wind, and the way \nthe clouds went over my head." I think, per- \nhaps every sight in the world that now is may \navail us in the world that is to come. On the \ngolden floor of heaven, it may be the better for \nme that I have noticed even the worm\'s way in \nand out of the earth. It may be that some of \nour little observations now will open into wonder- \nful knowledge hereafter. A plant comes out of \nthe ground a little bud. It opens and grows, \nand blossoms, and seeds, and then dies. Now, \nthere is much more in this than I know of \nyet ; much, very much more. Yes, yes ! If \nI knew all that is to be learned from a daisy \neven, I should be less of a stranger to God than I \nam. But I shall know it some time. All about \nme, tree unto tree is uttering speech, and flower \nunto flower is showing knowledge. But it is in \na language that I do not well understand, but \nwhich I shall remember ; and so which I shall \nlearn the whole meaning of hereafter. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSee, Oliver ! Look at yonder rose-bush, and \nsee the flowers under it. Flowers, sweet flow- \ners ! \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 459 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nGentle words they are, that come out of the \nearth ; and they tell us, out of the depths, the \nsame thing the stars witness from the heights \nabove, that everywhere life is beautiful. Flow- \ners are pretty to look at now ; but hereafter \nthey will be recollections, that will blossom in \nus again, and turn to seeds of new thought. For, \nas I think, there is nothing I have ever seen or \nheard which I shall not remember, \xe2\x80\x94 not a gnat \nin the sunshine, nor a water-fly on a pool, nor a \nswallow in the air. I have wondered over a lit- \ntle bird coming out of an egg-shell for a little \nlife of four or five years, and over a sparrow as \nhaving been created to become the prey of some \nhawk, and over the way of a snail, as being made \ninstinctive for it, and over the waking of a tor- \npid worm in spring. Now, some time or other, \nthese wonderings of mine will turn to strange, \nunearthly knowledge, and be the beginnings of \nfresh ways of feeling in me, and even perhaps \nof worship. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nYes, in our memories, there is more storing \nup than we can tell. And God is so wonderful, \nthat what is nothing as a sight, or an event, may \nprove very precious as a recollection. Oliver. \nAs you have been saying, yourself. \n\n\n\n460 ETTTHANASY. \n\n\n\nATJBIN. \n\nSometimes I remember little matters of ten \nand twenty years ago, how I plucked a flower \nsomewhere, or how I heard a bird sing, or how \nI had a person speak to me. Perhaps I have \nnot remembered these things once before ; yet the \nrecollections of them come into my mind quite \nperfect ; and trivial as they are, and because \nthey are so trivial, they are awful almost. For \nI cannot help feeling that, strange as this memory \nis, the purpose of it must be stranger still. The \nother day I recollected something, not only the \naction itself, and exactly how I did it, but how \nthe air felt the while, the way the sun shone, \nand a hay-field smelled, how two or three trees \nstood, and how a foxglove looked that was nigh \nme. What thousands and millions of recollec- \ntions there must be in us ! And every now and \nthen one of them becomes known to us ; and \nit shows us what spiritual depths are growing in \nus, what mines of memory. \n\nMAB.HAM. \n\nEven our idle words, whatever they may be, \nwill have to be accounted for in the day of judg- \nment. So, it is very likely, there are lasting on \nin our, memories all the sights we have ever seen, \nthe actions we have ever done, the thoughts we \nhave ever had, the words we have ever heard, \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 461 \n\nthe books we have ever read, and the prayers \nthat ever we have prayed. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd, uncle, to the soul, all these recollections \nwill be of use, some time or other, but in what \nway, % and to what strange purpose, we cannot \ntell, nor even guess. And no wonder ! For \nin their earliest days, what did the dwellers of \nthe earth know of what uses were under the soil ? \nNor would they have guessed them, even had \nthey been shown what beds of clay, sand, stone, \nand coal were down under the green turf. They \nnever would have thought of there being beautiful \nand comfortable dwellings to be shaped out of \nclay and stone; nor would they ever have thought \nof there being heat and light in a black mineral. \nAnd so, perhaps, even in our darker recollections, \nthere will prove hereafter to be some pure and \nbright use ; and in the millions and millions of \nremembrances we are getting, there are strange \njoys preparing in us, and new manifestations of \nthe understanding. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd now, Oliver, I understand you. The \nmore I think of life, the more wonderful it feels. \nBut it is with God and immortality, it is won- \nderful. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA plant draws earth and water into itself, and \n\n\n\n462 EUTHANASY. \n\nso blossoms. And out of this world our human \nnature is drawing to itself millions of experi- \nences ; while it is above, in heaven, that it w T ill \nflower. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 463 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII. \n\nTwo worlds are ours ; \'t is only sin \n\nForbids us to descry \nThe mystic heaven and earth within, \n\nPlain as the sea and sky. \n\nThou who hast given me eyes to see \n\nAnd love this sight so fair, \nGive me a heart to find out Thee, \n\nAnd read Thee everywhere. \xe2\x80\x94 Keblb. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA fine evening, Oliver ; clear and bright is it ? \nI am glad of it. And now again it is evening ; \nindeed, it is night ; night again ! A little while \nago I was not ; a very little while more and again \nI shall not be. In history a lifetime is a mere \nhandbreadth, and before God it is as nothing. In \nthe past, any age of it, where was I ? Where was \nI when Abraham departed out of Haran ? Where \nwas I while young Plato listened to Socrates, and \nwhile the book of Ecclesiasticus was being med- \nitated ? and when Britain was first heard of at \nRome, as an island beyond Gallia ? And in the \nyear nineteen hundred where shall I be in this \nworld ? Where shall I be when the great men of \nthe future shall talk together ; and when they have \nbeen founded and have risen, \xe2\x80\x94 those better insti- \n\n\n\n464 ETJTHANASY. \n\ntutions, that are to be ? Ah, those stars ! they \nwill be shining on, after I myself have been van- \nished hence, long, long. Time lasts on, and on, \nand on. In its course the patriarchs went down ; \nso did the prophet Samuel, so did Babylon and \nNineveh, so did Pericles and the other famous \nmen of Athens, so did Julius Caesar, so did \nRome, so did King Alfred, so did our fathers, so \nhave all men done, so are we doing, and so all \nmen will do. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nWe are born and we draw a breath ; some a \nlonger, some a shorter breath. We are born, we \ndraw just a breath, and then we die. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe stars ! They shine on us, they shone in \nthe past. They shone on David, and made him \nwonder ; and they shone on a woman he knew \nwell, on Rizpah, as she sat, by night as well as \nday, all harvest-time, watching by seven dead \nbodies. Those stars shone on Rizpah, as she sat \nin sackcloth on a rock, with dead bodies nigh her. \nAnd now they shine on the bare rock. But they \ndo shine still. Still those stars shine as they ever \ndid. O, what a strange, strange feeling this makes \nin me ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is the immortal instinct of our nature con- \nscious of a misgiving. It is the same as when \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 465 \n\nwe feel ourselves mortal, knowing the while of \nour immortality. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWith some poets, it would seem to have been \nas though their hearts had failed them at sight of \nthe stars. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThe stars are not meant to wither us with their \nrays, but only to make us feel what a nothing our \nduration is to theirs, \xe2\x80\x94 what a nothing our bodily \nlife is. And thus it is only spiritual life we can \nthink of as being life at all. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, Oliver, it is only the life of the soul that \nis life at all. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd then how does life feel evanescent ? to \nwhat faculty is it so ? This life is fleeting, sadly \nshort to our feelings, \xe2\x80\x94 to the feeling of the in- \nfinite, to the instinct of immortality, that is in us. \nAh, then, there is, \xe2\x80\x94 there is in us an instinct of \nan hereafter. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWith a few words of faith, how the weak soul \ngets refreshed, as though with a breath of heaven- \nly air ! Oliver, I think the world does not look \nthe same to us that it did to the heathen. Nor \ncan it now look the same to believers and to un- \nbelievers. For when a man is in Christ, the eyes \n30 \n\n\n\n466 EUTHANASY. \n\nof his understanding are opened in another man- \nner than is known to one without Christ in the \nworld. And, Oliver, I must not forget our con- \nversation this afternoon ; and, indeed, I am not \nlikely to do so soon. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nUncle, you will excuse me ; but I was a little \nsurprised, \xe2\x80\x94 no, not surprised, at what you were \nsaying just now. But the strain of what you said \nwas new to me from you, uncle. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhy, to tell the truth, I have just now been \nmusing over a chart of history, and talking with \nmyself not wisely. The stars ! See them ! \nThey are aloft in their places, so calm, so still, \nso pure ! The noises of this earth do not reach \nup one mile towards them. A little way from the \nsurface of it, this earth is bounded all round with \nsilence. Our clamors are ail shut in upon our- \nselves. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nHow we triumph and murmur, and laugh and \ncry, here ! And all about objects that are so lit- \ntle judged of from on high. Patience, quiet, is \nwhat is preached to us from the stars. Our cries \ndo not reach them, but their speech does extend \nto us. Their rays reach us. And what is the \nfeeling they make in us ? It is calm and solemn ; \nand always it is the same. Though a man does \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 467 \n\nnot feel it, when he is fretful or angry. But let \nhim cease from earthly anxieties, and then he will \nhear the language of the stars. At times the Son \nof God had not where to lay his head in this \nearth ; but he did not therefore believe himself \nthe less heavenly. And let a man feel the quiet \nof the stars, their great and sublime calm ; then \nlet him think of their solemn calm as being what \nhis own soul calms with, and he will feel himself \nso highly related, that he will not mind much what \nhouse or what circumstances he has to live in here \nfor a little while. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYour understanding of what the stars say is \nquite as true as what I was saying just now, and \nfar better to believe. Yet, Oliver, it is a strange, \nsolemn consideration, that we must die, and those \nstars continue shining on for ages, and for long, \nlong ages, perhaps. , \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd what of that ? Many a clock will outlast \nme for years, and perhaps for centuries ; and it \nwill tell the hours, when myself I shall be told of, \non earth, no more. They will shine on my grave, \n\xe2\x80\x94 the stars will ; but me myself they will not out- \nlast. Sun, moon, and stars are the marvellous \nclockwork by which time has been indicated for \nme, and will continue to be. For the time of my \ndeath there is a look the sky will have, though I \n\n\n\n468 EUTHANASY. \n\ndo not know what. But perhaps the sky will be \nblue, and with the sun quite bright in it ; or it will \nbe cloudy, perhaps ; or, perhaps, all golden in the \nwest ; or perhaps starry, the whole round of it. \nAnd if I am to die while the stars are shining, \nthen there is a way getting ready, which they will \nall be standing in the while ; perhaps with one \nplanet in the east, and another in the west, and a \ncertain constellation at the zenith. And when \nevery star has found his place, then I shall ascend \ninto mine. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nGoing up from belief in God to the sight of \nhim ! I think, Oliver, that perhaps God will be \nseen hereafter, through those same faculties by \nwhich now we believe in him. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nMyself I quite think so, uncle. And in the \nsame way I think that there are many of the ex- \nperiences of common life which will turn here- \nafter to immortal uses. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAs you made me understand so well this after- \nnoon. In this world we live for the next, and in \nthe next we shall be the better for having lived in \nthis. Somehow, in the believing soul, the ends of \nthe world that now is lengthen on into the beginnings \nof the world that is to come. Christ is in heaven, \nat the right hand of God, and he is in our hearts \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 469 \n\nthe hope of glory. We live mortal lives for im- \nmortal good. And this is such a world, and really \nit is so mysterious, that there is not one of its \ncommonest ways but perhaps is sublimer to walk \non than we at all think. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAt night, when we walk about and see at all, \nit is by the light of other worlds. Though we \ndo not often think of this. And it is the same in \nlife. There is many a matter concerning us that \nis little thought of, but yet which is ours, as it \nwere, from out of the infinite. Yes, our lives \nare to be felt as being very great even in their \nnothingness. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAnd as you say, Oliver, they feel so mortal to \nus because ourselves we are not mortal at all, but \nimmortal. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, and rightly thought of ; even our mortal \nlives are as wonderful as immortality. Is the next \nlife a mystery ? So it is ; but then how myste- \nrious even now life is. Food is not all that a man \nlives by. There is some way by which food has \nto turn to strength in him ; and that way is some- \nthing else than his own will. J am hungry, I sit \ndown to a meal, and I enjoy it. And the next \nday, from what I ate and drank for my pleasure, \nthere is blood in my veins, and moisture on my \n\n\n\n470 EUTHANASY. \n\nskin, and new flesh making in all my limbs. And \nthis is not my doing or willing. For I do not even \nknow how my nails grow from under the skin of \nmy fingers. I can well believe in my being to live \nhereafter ; how, indeed, I am to live I do not \nknow ; but, then, neither do I know how I do \nlive now. When I am asleep, my lungs keep \nbreathing, my heart keeps beating, my stomach \nkeeps digesting, and my whole body keeps making \nanew. And in the morning, when I look in the \nglass, it is as though I see myself a new creature ; \nand really, for the wonder of it, it is all the same \nas though another body had grown about me in \nmy sleep. This living from day to day is aston- \nishing when it is thought of ; and we are let feel \nthe miracle of it, so, perhaps, that our being to \nlive again may not be too wonderful for our \nbelief. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, I think it may be so, Oliver. Myself, I \nhave thought that I have believed the better in the \nlife to come, for feeling how mysterious is the life \nthat now is. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAlmost any right feeling about this present life \nhelps to rectify our feelings about the future life. \nAll our best moods feel immortal. Does ever a \nbrave man lay down his life, and feel it merely a \nmortal one ? I think not. For the good soul in \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 471 \n\nhim will not let itself be thought of so. A heart \nhas only to be noble, and of itself it will fill with \nfaith. No martyr ever went the way of duty and \nfelt the shadow of death upon it. The shadow \nof death is darkest in the valley, which men walk \nin easily, and is never felt at all on a steep place, \nlike Calvary. Truth is everlasting, and so is \nevery lover of it ; and so he feels himself almost \nalways. " To die is nothing to being false. I \nfeel death like nothing at all ; and so it is nothing \nin itself most likely." In battle, let it be for his \ncountry that a man stands up ; and his brave, \nnoble soul makes him feel that there is in him \na life, that is no more to be touched by can- \nnon-balls than God is, or than the kingdom of \nheaven is. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nLet us love God, and then of our being to live \non in him we shall not doubt. It is our love of \nGod that is the soul, the strength, of our faith in an \nhereafter. There are so many things that would \nseem against us and not for us, only that we love \nGod ! So very many painful things ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nDarkness is of use as well as daylight ; and so \nare the doubts that cloud our minds as well as the \ncertainties that light them up. So many thousand \nthings about us are painful to look at and know \n\n\n\n472 ETJTHANASY. \n\nfor us, and is a feeling which it is wholesome for \nus to walk about in for a while. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI think, Oliver, that the more one feels what \nthis world is precisely, the surer one is of its be- \ning to be explained in a way not known of yet, \xe2\x80\x94 \na way that will justify want and agony even to \ngoodness itself. And thus so many objects about \nus, that are sad to look at now, will turn in the \nfuture to recollections wonderful, and perhaps \nblessed, as you said this afternoon. Yes, Oliver, \nto the eyes of faith how all things change, and \nsad things look solemn, and dark things look \nbrightening, and bright things look brighter ! And \nthen, too, there are times, not those of our most \nvirtuous moods certainly, when our best thoughts \nfeel empty, and when events move us only to \ndespair. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nJust as a house is a home only to what do- \nmestic feeling is in a man, so very largely this \nworld is God\'s world only to what godly feelings \nare in us. And it is only to my Christian feeling \nthat the world feels \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat inspires you with courage, and hope, and \ntrust ? \n\nATTBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. There have been times when to \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 473 \n\nme nature has been meaningless ; and there have \nbeen men to whom it has been disheartening. \nAnd well I remember the time at which nature \nbegan in my eyes to grow good with the good- \nness of God. It was like as when a white cloud \ngrows golden with the rising sun. And now to \nmy trustful, Christian heart, nature is so that \nwhatever is in harmony with it I can be well con- \ntented to become, even though it might possibly \nprove to be nothing. In many a beautiful scene, \non a summer\'s day, it is as though it were said to \nme, " Feel now how blessed are the Divine \nhands, into which it will be thine sometime to \ncommend thy spirit." And now, to-night, is not \nit as though God had darkened the world for me \nto feel him the better in it ? And what are those \nstars but the thousand eyes of God\'s love watch- \ning me ? And the soft west wind, \xe2\x80\x94 is it not \nwhat my soul might well go forth upon calmly and \nhopefully ? \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nThe life of all things else is our life. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd what the sun rises in and sets in, our souls \nmay well be trusted to last on in. The morrow \nof the world is a purpose in the mind of God, \nand so is the great to-morrow of my soul. And \nI can be well contented to have my life subside \non the bosom of him in whom the day died away \n\n\n\n474 EUTHANASY. \n\nthis evening so beautifully, and in whom it will \nbegin again in the morning so grandly. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAlmost all things encourage the faith of a \nthoughtful and believing mind. It is easy to be- \nlieve that the souls of the righteous will shine on \nthrough death, since they have, for the life of their \nlives, that God in whom sun and moon and stars \nlast on through change, and eclipse, and ages. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nMy soul will live on in God, through death, \nlike a thought that lasts on in the mind through \nsleep, and forgetfulness, and threescore years \nand ten perhaps. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, I live in God, and shall eternally. It is \nhis hand upholds me now ; and death will be but \nan uplifting of me into his bosom. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 475 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX. \n\nAnd may it not be hoped, that, placed by age \n\nIn like removal, tranquil though severe, \n\nWe are not so removed for utter loss, \n\nBut for some favor, suited to our need ? \n\nWhat more than that the severing should confer \n\nFresh power to commune with the invisible world, \n\nAnd hear the mighty stream of tendency \n\nUttering, for elevation of our thought, \n\nA clear, sonorous voice, inaudible \n\nTo the vast multitude, whose doom it ia \n\nTo run the giddy round of vain delight, \n\nOr fret and labor on the plain below ? \n\nWordsworth. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nVery much I like it. But I am another man \nthan I was when I was there thirty years ago. \nAnd the people there are almost all other than \nI used to know. The land slopes as it used to \ndo, upwards to the brow of a hill, and down to- \nwards a brook. The brook runs on, stony at the \nbottom in one place, and gravelly in another ; \nand the grass alongside it is long and green, \nand with flowers in it. Prettily grow the fox- \nglove and the water-lily. And all day long, while \nthe daisies are looking up at the sun, the brook \nflows on, and here and there it gurgles ; and so it \ndoes in the dark, all the night through, and while \n\n\n\n476 EUTHANASY. \n\nthe daisies are shut. The water runs there, and \nthe grass grows there, and the flowers blossom \nthere, and smell there ; and the sun shines there, \nand midnight is dark there, and there all things \nare as they used to be. Only the men that were \nthere once are not there now. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd how did you feel ? You had old thoughts \ncome back to you, and old feelings. How did \nlife feel to you there ? \n\nMARHAM. \xe2\x99\xa6 \n\nOliver, it felt to me there what it does to me \ntoo often, perhaps. What is it to live ? It is \nto grow older. It is to have more pain, or else \nmore fear of pain. It is to have some friends \ngrow cold, and others die. It is to learn more \nand more reasons, every year, for being willing \nto die. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo it is ; and not lamentably so either. For \nto live thoughtfully is to advance in life, and feel \nourselves being laid hold of by the powers of \nthe world to come. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nA grand phrase is that of St. Paul\'s. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo it is. And, uncle, did not you feel more \nfaith, as well as more resignation, when you found \nyourself an old man, where you used to live as \na youth ? \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 477 \n\nMATtHAM. \n\nI hope, I trust, I did feel myself better per- \nsuaded of an hereafter than I was when I was a \nyoung man. But I cannot be sure how far the \npeace I felt there was that of the spirit, and not \nmerely that of the fineness of the day. \n\nAIIBIN. \n\nWorthy of trust though ; however it may have \nbeen made in you, I think. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nPerhaps so. For I think there is a religious- \nness in the calm of a beautiful day, and that it \nis what an irreligious man has no feeling of. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA fine day is universal harmony. There is \nnothing out of place with the sunshine on it, \nand hardly any thing even of man\'s making but \nseems to stand right. And in the soft, warm, \nstill air, all sounds are musical ; the screams and \ncalls of children, the crowing of the cock, the \nsinging of the lark, the chattering of the jay, the \nring of the anvil as the smith works at it, the \nlowing of the cows in the meadow, and the caw- \ning of the rooks high up in the air, the song of \nthe wren in the hedge, the bark of the dog by \nhis kennel, and the rattle on the distant railway. \nI have been in what I thought was an altogether \nugly neighbourhood. But there came a fine day ; \nand it was just as though it were said to me, \n\n\n\n478 ETTTHANASY. \n\nu See now how easily beautiful all things are." \nAnd so when we feel ourselves immortal, then \nall things round us are right, stormy weather as \nwell as spring-time, people that cannot under- \nstand us as well as those that do, hard things \nas well as pleasant things, sweet women and \nresolute men, children in their innocence, and \nbad men in their badness, as far at least as their \nbadness is our trial. \n\nMABHAM. \n\nHow is it, Oliver, that sometimes in misfor- \ntune an old man will sorrow more than he did \nin his youth, and yet his faith be as strong as it \never was ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI think, because, though sorrows do not often \nlast on in us all through life, yet they may re- \nvive in us for a time. Indeed, the same misfor- \ntune is not the same trouble always. For when \na young man mourns, it is for his one grief. \nBut when an old man is frightened, it is with a \nfearfulness which has grown in him from the \nlosses and bereavements and pains of a whole \nlifetime. When an old man weeps for any thing, \na hundred old sorrows weep from his eyes, many \nan old friend lies dead before him, and many a \npiece of ill news sounds in bis ears afresh. But \nstill in it all, if he is a Christian, he feels some- \nthing of the peace of God ; and, O, so sweetly \n\n\n\nETJTHANASY. 479 \n\nit feels ! And it is to him as though dead friends \nlay, one in one chamber, and another in another ; \nand as though one misfortune threatened him, and \nanother mourned to him, only to make him feel \nthe quiet of heaven, how great and sweet it is. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nHow much Christianity has done for old age ! \nI think that, of thirty epithets the Romans used \nto describe old age with, there were only two or \nthree but what were sad or contemptuous. But \nindeed it is hard even for a Christian not to feel \nrather sadly over old age, when it becomes de- \ncay of the faculties. An old man may remem- \nber things of seventy years ago : yet still it is \nmortifying for him, when he finds himself begin- \nning to forget little things of yesterday. Now, \nOliver, what would you say to such a person ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYou say, your memory fails you for common \nthings. But now this is not a thing for you to \ngrieve about. For why should you be remem- \nbering much more of the little things of this little \nlife, when you are so nigh the great things of a \nlife that will be infinite ? News, things that hap- \npen daily, \xe2\x80\x94 these we are to know of, for the \nsake of the wisdom they help to make in us. \nBut at fourscore years, a man is little the bet- \nter for recollecting well the countless events of \na day ; because whatever wisdom they can teach \n\n\n\n480 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nalready. \n\n\n\nor inure him to, he must have learned already \nAnd so it is not so much memory that is failing \nwith you, as the earthly purpose of it that is \nsignifying itself fulfilled. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nThank you, Oliver. What you have said is \ningenious, and I trust that it is true, for it is very \ncomforting. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSo many ways, tenderly and solemnly, does \nold age, as I think, suggest there being cer- \ntainly a blessed world to come. When old, a \nman loves God more than when young ; and \nloves him in a more childlike way, \xe2\x80\x94 loves him \nwith more wonder, from greater depths, and up \ngreater heights of thought. And this love of him- \nself will God draw back from ? Will he draw \nhimself up into his immortality, and leave his \nhuman creature yearning after him in vain ? No ; \nhe never will. This love, of his own making \nin the soul, will he withdraw from ? O, no ! \nAnd the many things that soften an old man\'s \nheart, \xe2\x80\x94 what are they, but God\'s way of making \nit love himself the better ! And in the failure \nof memory for the little things of to-day and \nyesterday, and in the weakening of such facul- \nties as are more peculiarly earthly in their use, \nis not it as though God were loosening the \nsoul for its freer coming to himself ? A flower \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 481 \n\ndropping its leaves and turning to seed is very \ncertainly predictive of a summer to come ; and \njust as certainly do very many of the circum- \nstances of an old man witness to what is to be \nhis renewal hereafter. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nIt is as having a Redeemer, that the old man \nnow is so different from what he was among the \nheathen. In Latin writings, and, I think very \nlikley, in Greek authors also, there is hardly a \nthing old age is likened to, but is what is pain- \nful to think of. But, indeed, even in our modern, \nour Christian literature, I know (ew pleasant em- \nblems of the end of life. It is as though expe- \nrience and nature yielded none. And yet an \nold man needs the consolation of seeing his face \nmade glorious in glorious mirrors. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nA good old age is a beautiful sight, and there \nis nothing earthly that is as noble, \xe2\x80\x94 in my eyes, \nat least. And so I have often thought. A ship \nis a fine object, when it comes up into a port, \nwith all its sails set, and quite safely, from a long \nvoyage. Many a thousand miles it has come, \nwith the sun for guidance, and the sea for its \npath, and the winds for its speed. What might \nhave been its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, \nhas yielded it a ready way ; and winds that might \nhave been its wreck, have been its service. It \n31 \n\n\n\n482 EUTHANASY. \n\nhas come from another meridian than ours ; it has \ncome through day and night ; it has come by \nreefs and banks, that have been avoided, and past \nrocks, that have been watched for. Not a plank \nhas started, nor one timber in it proved rotten. \nAnd now it comes like an answer to the prayers \nof many hearts, \xe2\x80\x94 a delight to the owner, a" joy \nto many a sailor\'s family, and a pleasure to all \nashore, that see it. It has been steered over \nthe ocean, and been piloted through dangers, \nand now it is safe. But more interesting still \nthan this is a good life, as it approaches its three- \nscore years and ten. It began in the century be- \nfore the present ; it has lasted on through storms \nand sunshine, and it has been guarded against \nmany a rock, on which shipwreck of a good con- \nscience might have been made. On the course \nit has taken, there has been the influence of \nProvidence ; and it has been guided by Christ, \nthat day-star from on high. Yes, old age is \neven a nobler sight than a ship completing a long, \nlong voyage. On a summer\'s evening, the set- \nting sun is grand to look at. In his morning \nbeams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for \ntheir work, and the world grew light. In his mid- \nday heat, wheat-fields grew yellower, and fruits \nwere ripened, and a thousand natural purposes \nwere answered, which we mortals do not know \nof. And in his light, at setting, all things seem \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 483 \n\nto grow harmonious and solemn. But what is all \nthis to the sight of a good life, in those years that \ngo down into the grave ? In the early days of it, \nold events had their happening ; with the light of \nit, many a house has been brightened ; and under \nthe good influence of it, souls have grown better, \nsome of whom are now on high. And then the \nclosing period of such a life, \xe2\x80\x94 how almost awful \nis the beauty of it ! From his setting, the sun \nwill rise again to-morrow ; and he will shine on \nmen and their work, and on children\'s children \nand their labors. But once finished, even a \ngood life has no renewal in this world. It will \nbegin again, but it will be in a new earth, and \nunder new heavens. Yes, uncle, nobler than \na ship safely ending a long voyage, and sublimer \nthan the setting sun, is the old age of a just, a^d \nkind, and useful life. \n\n\n\n484 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL. \n\nWith stammering lips and insufficient sound, \nI strive and struggle to deliver right \nThat music of my nature, day and night, \nWith dream and thought and feeling interwoven, \nAnd inly answering all the senses\' round, \nWith octaves of a mystic depth and height, \nWhich step out grandly to the infinite, \nFrom the dark edges of the sensual ground. \n\nE. B. Browning. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo doubt, there is in men a love of life, and so \nlife is eternal with them, I believe. For God is \ntoo good ever to have made us love life, had he \nintended to have deprived us of it, ever. So \nI think. I have been told that it is because \nof my great love of life, that I am so greatly- \npersuaded of the signs which betoken that there \nis a life hereafter, to be entered upon from life \nhere. But indeed I am not self-deceived, in this \nway. For I love life but little, as mere living ; \nand indeed not at all, I think. Only let me know \nthat the end of all men is everlasting death, and \nany time I would go to my grave like going to \nbed for ever. I do not think I have ever known \na moment I would not willingly have had be \nmy last, might it have been so for ever. All \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 485 \n\nthrough my life there has been no book so inter- \nesting to me, but I could have laid it down at any \npage;, no conversation so sweet, but I could have \nstopped in it at once ; no pleasure so great, but I \ncould have turned from it any instant, and been \nquite willing to die, if it might have been for ever. \nAnd I say now, that if the coffin-lid were to hide \nme from the universe for ever, I could ask to \nhave it made for me to-morrow. And at once I \nwould have it made ; for I should like the sight \nof it, if under it thought was to torture me no \nmore, and despair was to cease for ever. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut now, through our Saviour, Jesus Christ, it \nis not despair which comes of loving life, but only \nmore earnestness of faith. But perhaps, Oliver, \nit would be better if I could love this life less, and \nlife immortal more. I love this life too much, I \nam afraid. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI do not think you do, uncle ; and I do not \nthink any man can, in a wise way. My little love \nof life is neither excellence nor merit in me. \nChiefly it results from what my life has been : for \nnever have my circumstances been what I have \nfelt at home in. However, as a little child, I was \nsingularly happy. And yet, at seven or eight \nyears of age, I used to think of death often, es- \npecially in the night. I used to think of it only \n\n\n\n486 EUTHANASY. \n\nas ending life ; still I looked towards it quietly \nand fondly almost. " Vanity of vanities, all is \nvanity." This was in my mind, at twelve years \nold, quite as mournfully as it is written in the book \nof Ecclesiastes. I was very fond of play ; un- \nusually so ; and yet in the midst of a game, some- \ntimes, something would ask me, as though in \nscorn and pity, " What worth in this is there ? " \nI do not now yearn for death ; but it is not be- \ncause I am in love with this life, but because I \nknow now that death is not death, \xe2\x80\x94 is not so \nmuch an ending of life as a beginning of it again. \n\nI MARHAM. \n\nBut, Oliver, you do not mean to say that you \ndo not like living. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nO, no ! But as far as I do love life, it is more \nas thought than as pleasure. Indeed, for any en- \njoyment of it, I have never loved life. And so, \nwhatever feeling I have of life as being to be im- \nmortal, I can trust to confidently ; at least, I can \ntrust to it more reasonably than if I hoped to live \nagain, only out of a mere love of enjoying myself. \n" It is for immortality thou art made " ; this is in \nme no voice of lust, nor of pride, no cry of my \nown making, but a voice so awful, at times, that, \nnow and then, almost I could rather not know of it. \n\nB1ARHAM. \n\nLife, life is so dear ! It is to me, at least, and \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 487 \n\ntoo much so, at times, I am afraid. Oliver, I \nwish I could feel more as you do about it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThere is no occasion for your wishing that, my \ndear uncle. It is no virtue that loves life not at \nall. Myself I should have loved it better, if I \nhad had business to mind, and objects for my af- \nfections to lay hold of. I am none the worthier \nof the life to come, for never having had a fast \nhold of the life that now is ; but quite otherwise. \nThe oak that reaches nighest heaven with its top \nis deepest in the earth with its root. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it is ; and firmest in it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nI know, at least I think I do, that I should have \nbeen now more fit for heaven than I am, if for- \nmerly I had had more friends to love, more pleas- \nures to be gay and grateful in, and more busi- \nness to be active in. The more right things a \nman loves, the lovelier grows his soul. Neigh- \nbours, books, friends, pictures, the country, music, \nwork, \xe2\x80\x94 whatever things are good, let a man love, \nand he will himself be the better, and so be the \nfitter for what is best. Most persons are per- \nsuaded that pains assure us of there being an here- \nafter ; but that pleasures do the same is what very \nfew feel. Yet it is to be felt, O, so sweetly and \nstrangely ! Out of his cup of pleasure, let a man \n\n\n\n488 EUTHANASY. \n\ndrink only virtuous delight, and drink of it blessing \nGod the while ; and it will taste like water of life ; \nand easily he will believe in there being a river of \nit, somewhere, for him to find. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThat is a right thought, Oliver. At least, I like \nit. I like the spiritualism of your philosophy, \nbecause it does not often break away from real- \nities. Whatever it is you are seeing with the \neyes of your imagination, it is out of some win- \ndow in common life that you look the while. \nYou are like \xe2\x80\x94 like \xe2\x80\x94 you are like \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nATJBIN. \n\nSome astronomer, that plays with his child one \nmoment, and the next looks millions of miles \naway, to remark on which side of Jupiter some \none moon is shining. Or I am like one that \nshould gather common apples into a golden basket. \nBut I will tell you what I think of myself. I am \none that stands by the tree of knowledge, longing \nfor what fruit is on the topmost boughs. Hours \nand hours, and for more hours, perhaps, than I \nought, I watch those high branches ; and now and \nthen, as I know, an apple falls, which I fancy \nsometimes that I find. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDo thoughts, then, grow for you, like fruit, Oli- \nver ? \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 489 \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAh, no, no, uncle ! Not so easily. And yet \nto me it does not feel as though my own best \nthoughts were of my own devising, but rather as \nthough they were mine simply because my mind \nsomehow had been open for them to come into. \nThe best things I have written do not to me read \nlike my own, nor like any body\'s else ; but like \nrecollections of some bright dream, or of words \nheard in another world. But my bad thoughts are \nmy own ; they feel altogether my own. And well \nthey may. For when I am wicked I am so for \nmyself, and while thinking of myself, and while I \nam intent on some interest of my own, some pas- \nsion of mine, some wish of mine. After some of \nmy best actions, I have felt as though I had been \npossessed while doing them, divinely possessed. \nBut when I have been vicious, I have been selfish \nmost for myself, and even most myself, I might \nsay, perhaps. Goodness is godliness, God in us. \nAnd wickedness is selfishness, a man\'s self only. \nIn my best seasons I do not know that I am Oli- \nver Aubin ; I am not any body ; I am thought, I \nam feeling. But if there is any thing wrong in \nme, it is I, Oliver Aubin, that think it ; I, Oliver \nAubin. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nJust now you were going to say something \nabout some travellers\' book somewhere. \n\n\n\n490 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAt an inn among the Alps, in Switzerland, \nsome Englishman, ill of consumption, wrote in \nthe travellers\' book what his feelings of wonder \nwere at the sight of the glaciers ; how he is one \nwho is going across the x\\lps to die, and yet \n\nHere steals a moment from Italian sky, \nAnd stops and wonders on his way to die. \n\nDying man as he was, he could not feel himself \nonly mortal, but a man of wonder, and awe, and \nreverence, \xe2\x80\x94 feelings that are akin to immortality. \n\nMAK.HAM. \n\nI have read the passages Tasked you to trans- \ncribe for me, from those records of \n\ni AUBIN. \n\nHow my sun went black in the sky at mid -day, \nand hung there an orb of darkness. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou have arranged the extracts as I suggested. \nAnd I have found a motto for them, as you will \nsee ; for I have prefixed it. \n\n\n\nETTTHANASY. 491 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI. \n\nHath he not always treasures, always friends, \n\nThe good great man ? Three treasures, \xe2\x80\x94 Love, and Light, \n\nAnd calm Thoughts, regular as infants\' hreath ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd three firm friends, more sure than day and night, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHimself, his Maker, and the angel Death. \n\nColeridge. \n\nSeven conclusions from a week of sad eve- \nnings : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSunday. \xe2\x80\x94 About the hardships of life a man \ncannot murmur, and it not be against God. \n\nMonday. \xe2\x80\x94 This breath of mine is God\'s good \ngiving ; and it is health and life in me, as I draw \nit : but in breathing it out again, so often I make \nit into sighs against the Giver of it ! I misuse \nGod\'s air so ! Such a traitor I am this way ! \n\nTuesday. \xe2\x80\x94 Misery, misery, O my misery ! \nSo slowly time goes with it ! To-day has been \nwith me like years, like a thousand years : and \nto-morrow will pass the same way as to-day ; and \nso will the day after. And it is well, is it not ? \nFor these long days are making my life the longer, \nalmost ages the longer. But so wretched they \nare ! Yet they are not too wretched to pray in ! \nO the feelings I have had the last few days ! \nThis weary, weary season ! Nay ; but it is this \n\n\n\n492 EUTHANASY. \n\nprecious, precious time ! Because of long days \nit is not for a mortal to complain, and of sorrow- \nful ones a Christian will not. \n\nWednesday. \xe2\x80\x94 These long, long days ! Ah, \nyes ! There may well be to me some feeling of \nlength in them ; for out of their hours, myself, I \nam growing to be immortal, as I trust. \n\nThursday. \xe2\x80\x94 This trouble of mine is God\'s \nloving chastisement. Do I believe this ? Yes, \nI do. Then why am I so wretched ? O, there \nis many a man, an angel now, that would take \nflesh again eagerly, for the sake of carrying this \ncross of mine. But what troubles me most is, \nnot the weight of the cross, but what men may \nthink of me for having it to carry. But they are \nnot all my witnesses, nor indeed the chief of \nthem : for there are others than they about me, a \ngreat cloud of them, though known of only in \nspirit. Courage, then ! I have angels looking \non ; and I have my Father watching me : and it \nis mine to walk in life abreast with martyrs, for \nsome few steps, at least. \n\nFriday. \xe2\x80\x94 O, how dreary, and friendless, and \nhelpless, and useless my life is ! It is as though \nI were out in a wilderness ; so lonely, and so sad \nI am ! And indeed it is so ; and there comes the \ntempter to me. And one time he will have me \nweep, because I have not a friend to understand \nme. But I keep my tears for my sins. And \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 493 \n\nanother time he tries to embitter me, and make \nme say that vanity of vanities, life is vanity. But \nI answer him, that goodness is not vanity, nor is \ndying for goodness a vanity ; and that I long for \nthe one, and am ready for the other. Nay, thou \ntempter ! It is by thy coming to me that I know \nmyself. Yes, like Jesus, I too am a soul, I am \na spirit for ever. But I have thee to resist, Devil. \nThou art one thing to one man, and another to \nanother ; and to wicked and unbelieving souls, \nhereafter, thou wilt be strange things, unknown of \nyet. But to me, just this day, thou art poverty. \nBut I will not be daunted by thee so. I can \novercome thee, and I will. For I know of a \nway, through having nothing to possess all things. \nCourage, my soul ! Be patient and full of faith. \nResist the adversary as poverty, and thou wilt \novercome him for this life and for ever. For in \na godly way, overcoming him in one shape, thou \nart conquering him in every other form, as wine, \nas a harlot, as pride, as a mob, as a tyrant, and as \ndespair. \n\nSaturday. \xe2\x80\x94 I am overcoming the world itself, \nby outgrowing the love of it. As a poor man, if \nI keep free in spirit, and cheerful, then I am get- \nting gold, and silver, and dignities, and thrones \nbeneath my feet ; and I am growing up to the \nlevel of principalities and powers in heaven. \n\n\n\n494 EUTHANASY. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII. \n\nAh, yes ! the hour is come \nWhen thou must hasten home, \n\nPure soul ! to Him who calls. \nThe God who gave thee breath \nWalks by the side of Death, \n\nAnd naught that step appalls. \n\nHealth has forsaken thee ; \nHope says thou soon shalt be \n\nWhere happier spirits dwell, \nThere where one loving word \nAlone is never heard, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat loving word, farewell. \n\nW. S. Landor. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nWater, uncle ! a glass of water ! Thank you. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nAre you very much worse, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nOnly for a minute or two ; not for more, per- \nhaps. O pain, pain, pain ! O the people I \nthink of now ! What was the sacrament of \nblood ? Was it not when persons mingled their \nblood in one cup, and then drank of it, all of \nthem ? Always, till this moment, it has seemed \nto me a fantastical proceeding ; but it does not \nnow ; for I think I feel now what the first users \nof it meant, though I do not know. O, pain is a \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 495 \n\nstrange brotherhood among men ! No, uncle, \nno ! you cannot do any thing for me. But do not \nleave me. O, it is as though flash after flash of \nthe lightning of God were going through me ! \nDreadful, dreadful, very dreadful ! And it is \nawful, and it is sublime ! For the agonies, as \nthey go, say, " Not in vain have we been through \nyou ; not in vain." And the spirit within cannot \nbut believe. It is as though there were a great \nmystery growing up between me and God, for \nexplanation some time. Just now, my feeling of \nendurance is very strange ; it. is so strange that I \nwould not but know it, very dreadful as the pain \nis. It is as though I am being afflicted because \nGc;d cannot help it. You would think this must \nbe wretched despair ; but it is not. God cannot \nspare me. Do thy will, do thy divine will, do \nthy will upon me, O God ! God pity me ! Yes, \nI know the Lord does pity me. In the mind of \nGod there is pity for me. Yes, God wishes me \nto bear, is anxious for it, \xe2\x80\x94 he, the Father of \nspirits. O, then I will ! and I am strong to do it \ntriumphantly. \n\nMAKE AM. \n\nThink of what Jesus Christ must have suffered \non the cross. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, dear uncle, it is in the spirit of that cruci- \nfixion that I feel as I do. I know myself to be in \n\n\n\n496 EUTHANASY. \n\nno torture-house, but in the latter agonies of an \nimmortal birth. And this is the faith of my soul, \nthrough Him, the buried and the risen, the cruci- \nfied and the ascended. Thy spirit, thy spirit, O \nChrist ! is my strength, my hope, my oneness \nwith God. For in thy mind there was wrestled \nout the victory of those thoughts that come to me \nso gloriously. Glory to thee, who art the light \nof my light, and the victoriousness of my victory \nin this world ! \n\nMARHAM. \n\nGlory, glory to him ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is an odd thing for me to be thinking just \nnow, is not it ? But I am persuaded that % the \nhighest consecration of marriage is in the joint en- \ndurance of suffering by husband and wife. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, in pain our hearts soften towards one \nanother. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nAnd more than that, our spirits are sublimed. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nDoes not talking weaken you, Oliver ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nNo ; it is a little relief from pain, uncle. O \npain, pain ! I love all men more tenderly for \nsuffering with them. And Jesus, \xe2\x80\x94 he is my \nSavicur, by the form of God he is in, by his wis- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 497 \n\ndom and power ; but it is by his crown of thorns \nhe is my brother ; and it is by his suffering with \nme, that I have the feeling of God\'s being my \nFather. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, Oliver, you know that suffering is the will \nof God ; and that without it even the Captain of \nour salvation could not have been made perfect. \nIt is what we are all born to ; and some of the \nbest of us to the most of it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nMy thoughts are in hospitals, where men lie in \nagony ; and at sea, where men drown ; and in \nAustrian prisons, where patriots rot away their \nlives ; and in what were the dungeons of the In- \nquisition ; and in what was the Roman circus ; and \nby bedsides, where young husbands and wives are \nparting ; and in places where the tender-hearted \nare helplessly wronged. And to all this, \xe2\x80\x94 to this \nsuffering from one another, and from the elements, \nand from disease, and from death, \xe2\x80\x94 we men have \nbeen made subject, though not willingly. O, no ! \nO God, no ! But thou art thyself the reason of \nit ; and thou hast done it in hope. And it is \nbondage that ennobles us by our passing through \nit ; for so we come to the glorious liberty of thy \nchildren. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou are easier now, I hope, Oliver. \n32 \n\n\n\n498 ETJTHANASY. \n\nATJBIX. \n\nO, yes ! it is subsiding, the pain is. But I am \nmuch better than yesterday, and in a day or two I \nshall be nearly well again. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWhat book is that behind your pillow ? It \nmakes you smile. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nIt is Martin Luther\'s Table-Talk. And I \nwas thinking of what Luther said one August \nafternoon, when he and his Catharine lay ill of a \nfever: \xe2\x80\x94 "God hath touched me sorely, and I \nhave been impatient. But God knoweth better \nthan we ourselves whereto it serveth. Our Lord \nGod doth like a printer, who setteth the letters \nbackwards : we see and feel well his setting, but \nwe shall see the print yonder, in the life to come. \nIn the mean time we must have patience." It is \nquaintly but very well said ; is it not ? \n\nMARHA3I. \n\nYes, it is. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nGreat sufferers in this world are not very rare, \nand so are no wonder to us ; but our human mis- \neries are mysteries to the angels, and things they \ndesire to look into. How the more ancient sons \nof God had their birth, there is no knowing. But \nsome of them, perhaps, grew up to their high \nestate slowly, and surely, and unerringly, and like \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 499 \n\nthe full moon, when she rises from behind a \ngrove, and goes up the sky, in a quiet night. O, \nto some of them, what a sight, what an awe, \nmust be the growth of a soul in this world ! \nThere are some of the sons of God, of an age \nwith the morning stars, and older, perhaps ; and \ntheir growth was, for the time of it, like the shap- \ning of our earth. But the lifetime of a man is \nonly a small part of the duration of an oak, an \nolive, or a cedar-tree. And what some spirits \nhave been ages growing up to, man has to achieve \nin a few years \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, but not unhelped ; and to begin with, \nmade but little lower than the angels, but still a \nwonder to them, and a mystery, on account of his \ndifferent creation. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nAnd what a strange appearance he must be in \ntheir spiritual eyes ! \xe2\x80\x94 free, most free, and yet, \ninvisibly to himself, hung about with the chains of \nnecessity ; with the hand of God always offered \nhim, and yet with the thunder of God bursting \nupon him from time to time, out of the gathered \nclouds of adversity ; most mortal, and most cer- \ntainly immortal ; a creature of a will, now fleshly, \nnow spiritual, and now at last the same with the \nwill of God. But, O, it is a good man suffering \nmust be the wonder of many a heavenly dweller ; \n\n\n\n500 ETTTHANASY. \n\nhe having himself been formed through another \ndiscipline than that of endurance, perhaps. And \nwhen he hears of earthly agony, he cannot but \nlearn it calmly and cheerfully, and therefore also \nwith holy wonder, as to why this lower creation \nhas been made to groan and travail in pain togeth- \ner. O, there are heavenly spirits, to whom the \nknowledge of our righteous sufferers must be \nmore prophetic of creative newness than a voice \nwould be, if heard calling down the depths of \ninfinity, to let new worlds be started. Yes, \nPaul, yes ! Thy Lord and Master, and mine, \xe2\x80\x94 \nif we suffer with him, we shall be also glorified \ntogether. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 501 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII. \n\nAh ! happy spirits that behold \n\nThe King in love divine, \nAnd see, beneath your floor of gold \n\nThe stars and planets shine ; \nThe dim abysses of the air, \nAnd earth\'s green orb revolving there. \n\nEach hath his proper meed above \n\nFor actions nobly done ; \nBut love that can another love \n\nMakes ever that her own ; \nEach hath his own peculiar good, \nBut shared by the whole brotherhood. \n\nPeter Damianus. \n\nMAKHAM. \n\nThe righteous will differ from one another in \nglory, as the stars do. This we know. Now \nmay not this imply that they will be in separate \nplaces, \xe2\x80\x94 in regions, some more and some less \nhappy ? \n\nATTBIN. \n\nI do not think it does. To every one the \nspiritual world will be according to what his spir- \nit is. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nI do not understand you, Oliver. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIs this earth the same thing to all us earthly \n\n\n\n502 EUTHAXASY. \n\ndwellers ? Is not it one thing to one man, and \nanother to another, and a third thing to a third \nman ? Is not it thousand-fold and million-fold ? \nTo one beholder, the earth is a daily revelation \nof God ; while another man is so mere a mer- \nchant, that the earth is to him the wide floor of \na place of exchange ; and the firmament is only \nthe high roof of it. There are gluttons, to whom \nthe world is only a fish-pond, a poultry-yard, a \nstall for fattening cattle in, and a kitchen garden ; \nand to these men, the seasons, as they change, \nsuggest only thoughts of what fresh dishes may \nbe had. There are wretched persons in London, \nto whom the world is simply a place for street- \ncrossings to be swept in. One man is only a \nfarmer, and only more cunning than one of his \noxen ; while another is a poet, as well as a far- \nmer ; and another is a father, as well as being \na poet and a farmer ; now these three persons \nsee the world in very different lights. On ac- \ncount of his health, one man as he walks the \nearth feels it under him like the floor of an ever- \nlasting home ; and another, because he is ill, \nstands on it like a gravestone ; while anoth- \ner, who is hopeful as well as dying, feels the \nearth under him like a broad stepping-stone to \nheaven. \n\nMAEHAM. \n\nFor the dissatisfied man, all life is unsatisfac- \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 503 \n\ntory ; and for one that is contented, the world is \nfull of comforts. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, and, for the cheerful man, even the east- \nerly wind is musical in the window-crevices, and \nit makes solemn anthems for him in the woods. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it does. And, to a great extent, life is \nwhat we think it. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nDay and night, and every moment, there are \nvoices about us. All the hours speak, as they \npass ; and in every event there is a message to \nus ; and all our circumstances talk with us ; but \nit is in divine language, that worldliness misunder- \nstands, that selfishness is frightened at, and that \nonly the children of God hear rightly and hap- \npily. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nTrue, Oliver, true ! \n\nAUBIN. \n\nIt is many things to its many dwellers ; this \nworld is. It is a home ; it is a workshop ; it is \na place of amusement ; it is a school, with trouble \nand pain for chief teachers in ; and for the de- \nvout, it is a church to worship in ; and for them \nthat have eyes to see, it is the wisdom, and the \nbeauty, and the love of God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it is. \n\n\n\n504 EUTHANASY. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nSo, then, if this world is to us what we think \nit, the next may be to us just what we are fit \nfor, perhaps. And there may be a thousand of \nus stand together in heaven, and every one of \nus with a different degree of glorious feeling. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nBut we shall all be in sight of God. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nBut not all in the same full sight. For now do \nwe all feel God about us the same ? No. And \nso in heaven, there may be one eternal look of \nblessing on us all, and we all feel it, but not alike. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nOne disciple will be a ruler over ten cities, and \nanother over five. This rule of cities is not to \nbe understood literally, of course ; and you think \nit is figurative, when heaven is spoken of as more \nthan one city. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nPerhaps it is. In the Revelation, heaven is \nsaid to be only one city, \xe2\x80\x94 the New Jerusalem. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo it is, and in a passage not incidentally, but \npurposely, descriptive of heaven. \n\nAUBIX. \n\nThere is no reason why we should not expect \nmen more and less rewarded, men of many and \nfew talents, to be together hereafter. According \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 505 \n\nto our worthiness of heaven will be our enjoy- \nment of it. This earth is only an occupancy of \nsome seventy years for us, and the round of it is \nonly some few thousand miles, yet it is a differ- \nent world to every man of many millions in it ; so \nthat the kingdom of heaven may well be a differ- \nent place to every one of its gainers, for it is in- \nfinite and eternal. It will be, \xe2\x80\x94 yes ! heaven will \nbe what we feel it, what we are ready to feel. \nAnd our feelings are much in our own making. I \ncannot will my head to be a storehouse of knowl- \nedge ; but my heart I can make the issue of \nwhat life I please, \xe2\x80\x94 holy, most holy, loving, and \nhopeful, if I choose. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, and much wisdom comes of loving ; \nthough a man may know largely, and love nothing. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nFor admission into heaven, God asks of us \nnothing impossible. We have a law to keep, \xe2\x80\x94 \nhis law. True, we are creatures of frailty, and \nyesterday, and the dust, while he is God most \nhigh. But it is not knowledge, nor the perfec- \ntion of service, but it is love, that is the fulfilling \nof the law, \xe2\x80\x94 the love of the law, for what of \nGod\'s is in it, \xe2\x80\x94 the love of God, for his god- \nhead\'s sake, \xe2\x80\x94 and the love of man, for what \ngood is in him, or, if not in him yet, for what will \nbe. We cannot all of us be knowing, nor can \n\n\n\n506 EUTHANASY. \n\nany of us know very much, but we can love, and \nas though infinitely. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nFaith, hope, and love, these three, but the \ngreatest of these is love. \n\nATTEIN. \n\nThe greatest ! Yes, it is. And in that there \nis all comfort for them that hope to meet again. \nLove ! why should we doubt but it will have its \nobjects ? for that faith will have its, we are sure ; \nand love is greater than faith. O, if there is a \nheaven for our faith, there are friends in it for \nour love. I have known those who have grown \nholy through thoughts of the dead. I have \nknown one who, as he prayed, always felt, as it \nwere, the presence of a spirit about him, \xe2\x80\x94 one of \nthe blessed vanished. And it was in her spirit \nhe prayed, and was earnest in prayer. Another \nperson I have known, to whom the meeting of \nher husband was all of heaven, beside God ; for \nhe had been the husband of her soul, as well as \nher youth, and they had suffered much together, \nbut she much more by herself. We are saved \nby hope, and some of us by the special hope of \nbeing with our friends again. So that if there is \nsalvation by hope, our friends whom we so hope \nfor we shall certainly have again. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nWe are not to sorrow for the dead as those \n\n\n\nEUTHANASY. 507 \n\nthat have no hope ; now this implies our know- \ning our friends hereafter ; because our grief is \nfor their having been taken from us, and not for \ntheir having been taken into happiness. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nTo know our dear friends again is not a fan- \ntastical nor an unreasonable wish ; it is a hope \nthat is quite rational, and altogether natural to us, \nas loving and thinking and immortal souls. Our \nnature is not our own making, but God\'s. Our \nsouls are made so as to long and hope for sight of \nthe lost ; and so naturally do they do so, that it \nis as though God made them do it. So I can- \nnot doubt our having our friends again. \n\nBIARHAM. \n\nNor I ; for that we shall be with them hereafter \nis often implied in Scripture, though not so often \nsaid. But is reunion with our friends so certain \nas you think, or only as a hope of the soul ? \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle, it is, as long as God is God, or \ntill we see creatures falsely made, and in the \nfields, the woods, and all over the world, thirsting \nand in agony for a liquid that does not exist, and \nnever will. God would never have let us long for \nour friends with such a strong and holy love, if \nthey were not waiting for us. They would never \nbe all heaven to so many of us, if their dear faces \nwere not as sure as heaven. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2# \n\n\n\n508 EUTHANASY. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nSo one would think, and perhaps not without \ngreat reason. \n\nATJBIN. \n\nThis universe is no falsehood ; for we have not \nfound it so,, but a truth ; so we will not distrust \nthose purer wishes, which, indeed, are prompt- \nings of our nature. We long to see and know our \ndear friends in the next life ; and so we shall have \nthem. And we ought not to fear otherwise ; for \nwe ought to believe better of God than to do that. \nBut suppose it ; the friends I have had, I am \nnever to know again ; so it is God\'s will, \xe2\x80\x94 his \nblessed will, \xe2\x80\x94 the will one prays may be done. \nThat Divine will is better than my wish ; it is \nmany times, a thousand times, an infinity, better. \nWhy, now, as soon as I say heartily, " Thy will \nbe done in this," at once I feel it will be done, \nthe way of my heart. I cannot claim to know \nmy lost friends in the next world, nor can I tell \nhow I am to know them ; but as soon as I trust \nin God to let me know them, if it be his good \nwill, then I do not doubt, and I am sure of their \ncompany. O the peace it is to trust in God ! \nSometimes, uncle, I think I will never reason \nabout the future at all, but only pray God his will \nmay be done. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThis is All Souls\' Day, Oliver. It is not \n\n\n\n\n\n\nETTTHANASY. 509 \n\nmuch kept now, nor hardly remembered, any- \nwhere, I think. But when I was a boy, the chil- \ndren used to go about repeating two or three \nverses at people\'s doors. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nThey are the souls that have been in this world, \nand that are now out of it, that are the strength \nof our faith in the world to come. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYou mean, it is their waiting us in the next \nworld that makes it less shadowy, and more real. \n\nAUBIN. \n\nYes, uncle. And there are some greater souls, \nthe very thought of whom is an increase of faith. \nMen depart this world, many of them having \ncheated it, and nearly all of them owing it largely. \nBut now and then dies one who has made the \nworld his debtor, and the ages of the world his \nwitnesses. Such a man, there is no doubting, is \nentered into the joy of his Lord, and into a rule \nlike that over many cities. Joy to him, and \nthanks ! Ay, many thanks ! For his is a high \nestate of reward ; and by our being kindred to \nhim in soul, however distantly, we feel certain of \nsome happiness, though lower than his, much \nlower, perhaps. O Pascal ! thou wert pure in \nheart in this world, and now thou art in full sight \nof God. This I feel ; and by this feeling I am \nbold to trust that every one, who has lived at all \n\n\n\n510 EUTHANASY. \n\nakin to thy purity, will be purified, so as at last to \nbe of kin with thee in happiness. O John Mil- \nton ! thou art among the angels and the seraphs, \nthat were once thy glorious song ; and this world \nis dear to them, for what thou thyself wert in it. \nO, how sublimely dost thou move in heaven, the \nlove of saints and heroes, and spirits multitudi- \nnous ! And I, \xe2\x80\x94 I feel as though it were impos- \nsible for me to be shut out of heaven for ever and \nutterly, even if it were only for the sake of the \ndear language common to us both. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThere i^ right feeling in what you have been \nsaying. But I am not sure \n\n\xc2\xabATJBIN. \n\nOf my theology, uncle ? But I am myself cer- \ntain of its soundness. And what is my certainty ? \nThe spirit of God. For it testifies within me, \nthat my love of the good and the great is predes- \ntination to their company, earlier or later. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nThe love of the best and greatest is. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nYou mean God. \n\nMARHAM. \n\nYes, and I mean also the first-born of us \ncreatures. \n\nATTBIN. \n\nWho wore our nature among the Jews so \n\n\n\nETTTHANASY. 511 \n\ngrandly, so like a king and a servant both ; and \nwhose heart never changed from what it was in \nthe littleness of childhood, while out of his manly \nmouth proceeded gracious words to be wondered \nat, \xe2\x80\x94 a son of man in his birth, but in his death \nthe Son of God, \xe2\x80\x94 Jesus Christ, through whose \nlife as a man humanity itself has grown divine. \nThrough his spirit in my spirit does my spirit feel \nitself in God. And so glory to him, over angels \nand seraphs, and in his exaltation above princi- \npalities and powers ! Glory to the first-born of \nus brethren ! Glory to him, in the bosom of the \nFather ! And because he is there,, and I know \nit, I am myself strong to trust that I shall see it. \n" Listen, listen ! " says my heart within me. \nAnd, Q, like words out of heaven sounds what is \nwish and promise both, \xe2\x80\x94 " Grace be with all \nthem that love our Lord Jesus Christ in sincer- \nity." And it is with them ; and the love of \nChrist will be the sight of him. \n\n\n\nTHE END. \n\n\n\n3477 \n\n\n\n'