“Who sustained my lost son in his long sickness, comforted him, and received his last sigh? Ah! sir--But I dare not disobey your too strict injunction. 'Friend of the poor! the mourner feels thy aid-- She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid!' “It is not many evenings since that I accompanied my dear young friend in one of his solitary rambles. The sun was setting in golden splendour, and tinged the deep blue clouds that appeared like mountains rising above one another. 'Yon glorious orb,' he cried, with sacred fervour, 'emblem of immortality! The setting and the rising sun To me are themes of deep reflection-- Death, frail mortal! is the one, The other is thy resurrection. Oh! be that resurrection mine, And glorious as those rays divine! A few days after I was called to his bed-side; the hand of death had seized him; he recognised me, smiled, and gently pressed my hand. '_Every misery missed_,' he whispered, '_is a mercy!_' A faint struggle, and a short sigh succeeded, and he was gone to his rest!” “What a poor figure would this simple record of good works, lively faith, and filial piety make in a modern obituary, where incoherent ravings are eagerly noted down by officious death-bed gossipers, and wrought into a romance, always egotistical, and too often profane! To you, madam,” added Uncle Timothy, “consolation and hope have been brought by a heaven-appointed messenger. Something, however, remains to be done in a worldly sense. But I see our friend is on the eve of departure; what I was about to propose shall be submitted to him when we are alone. In the mean time, you will please to consider this humble roof but as a temporary home. It abounds in sad remembrances, which change of scene may soften down, if not entirely dispel. I have a dear, affectionate relative, who would deeply regard you, were it only for your sorrow. And as there 'is a special providence in the falling of a sparrow,' I cannot doubt that some good spirit directed me hither. God bless you! We shall very soon meet again.” And locking the kind pastor's arm in his own, he hurried down the little garden, pausing for a moment to gather a pale rose, which he placed in his bosom. CHAPTER XI. |Railly, Master Jackimo, I'm quite ashamed on your laziness! you only gits up to lie down, and only lies down to git up! and, instead of making your bow to the ladies and gentlemen, and holding out your cap to catch the coppers, you are everlastingly a-doing o' nuffin but pulling up your shirt-collar, and cracking o' nuts. Havn't I treated you more like a relation than a monkey--giving you the best of advice? But if ever I find you at your old fun ag'in, as sure as my name's Blinking Billy, _I'll take off your goold scarlet waistcoat!_”