The pains of all those hours were annihilated,--as completely vanished as if they had never been; while the momentary peep behind the window-curtain made me possessor of this radiant picture for evermore." "Whence came this wide difference," she asks, "between the good and the evil? Because good is indissolubly connected with ideas,--with the unseen realities which are indestructible." And though the illustration which she thus gives may bear the impression of an individual personality, instead of a universal truth, still, in the instance to which Iapply it, I believe it will very generally hold true, that memory leaves a pleasant rather than a painful impression.At least, there is so much that is pleasant mingled with it that we would not willingly lose the faculty of memory,--the consciousness that we can thus call back the dead, and hear their voices,--that we have the power of softening the rugged realities which only suggest our loss and disappointment, by transferring the scene and the hour to the past and the departed.And, as our conceptions become more and more spiritual, we shall find the real to be less dependent upon the outward and the visible,--we shall learn how much life there is in a thought,--how veritable are the communions of spirit; and the hour in which memory gives us the vision of the dead will be prized by us as an hour of actual experience and such opportunities will grow more precious to us.No, we would not willingly lose this power of memory.
One would not say, "Let the dead never come back to me in a thought, or a dream; let them never glide before me in the still watch of meditation; let me see, let me hear them no more, even in fancy;"--not one of us would say this; and, therefore, it is evident, that whatever painful circumstance memory or association may recall,--even though it cause us to go out and weep bitterly,--there is a sacred pleasure, a tender melancholy, that speaks to us in these voices of the dead, which we are willing to cherish and repeat.It makes our tears soft and sanctifying as they fall; it makes our hearts purer and better,--makes them stronger for the conflict of life.
I remark, finally, that the dead speak to us in those religious suggestions--those consolations, invitations, and hopes--which the bereaved spirit indulges.Our meditations, concerning them naturally draw us more closely to these spiritual realities which lie beyond the grave, and beget in us those holier sentiments which we need.That such is the tendency of these recollections experience assures us.They open for us a new order of thought;they bring us in contact with the loftiest but most neglected truths.Even the hardest heart feels this influence.It is softened by the stroke of bereavement and, for the time being, a chastening influence falls upon it, and it always thinks of the dead with tenderness and awe.They speak to our affections with an irresistible influence; they soothe our turbulent passions with their mild and holy calmness; they rebuke us in their spiritual majesty for our sensuality and our sin.They have departed, but they are not silent.Though dead, they speak to us.Sweet and sanctifying is their communion with us.They utter words of warning, too, and speak to us by the silent eloquence of example.By this they bid us imitate all that was good in their lives, all that is dear to remember.By this, too, they tell us that we are passing swiftly from the earth, and hastening to join their number.A little while ago, and they were as we are;--a little while hence, and we shall be as they.
Our work, like theirs, will be left behind to speak for us.How important, then, that we consider what work we do! They assure us that nothing is perpetual here.They bid us not fasten our affections upon earth.In long procession they pass us by, with solemn voices telling of their love and hatred, their interests and cares, their work and device;--all abandoned now and passed away, as little worth as the dust that blows across their graves.
Upon all that was theirs, upon every memorial of them, broods a melancholy dimness and silence.They recede more and more from the associations of the living.New tides of life roll through the cities of their habitation, and upon the foot-worn pavements of their traffic other feet are busy.Their lovely labor, or their stately pomp, is forgotten.No one weeps or cares for them.Their solicitous monuments are unheeded.The companions of their youth have rejoined them.The young, who scarcely remembered them, are giving way to another generation.The places that knew them know them no longer."This, this," their solemn voices preach to us, "is the changeableness of earth, and the emptiness of its pursuits!" They urge us to seek the noblest end, the unfailing treasure.They bid us to find our hope and our rest, our only constant joy in Him, who alone, amid this mutability and decay, is permanent,--in God!
Well, then, is it for us to listen to the voices of the dead.By so doing, we are better fitted for life, and for death.From that audience we go purified and strengthened into the varied discipline of our mortal state.We are willing to stay, knowing that the dead are so near us, and that our communion with them may be so intimate.We are willing to go, seeing that we shall not be widely separated from those we leave behind.We will toil in our lot while God pleases, and when he summons us we will calmly depart.When the silver cord becomes untwined, and the golden bond broken,--when the wheel of action stands still in the exhausted cistern of our life,--may we lie down in the light of that faith which makes so beautiful the face of the dying Christian, and has converted death's ghastly silence to a peaceful sleep; may we rise to a holier and more visible communion, in the land without a sin and without a tear; where the dead shall be closer to us than in this life; where not the partition of a shadow, or a doubt, shall come between.
