APPENDIX. ONE morning I paid a pastoral visit to a young lady, a member of my church, whose family had not long removed from another part of the country to reside in Birmingham. On my rising to retire, my young friend informed me that she had an invalid sister, whom she expected every moment from her chamber, and who, she said, would be much gratified to see me. I had scarcely resumed my seat, before there entered the room a most lovely and interesting young person, whose features, naturally extremely pleasing, derived additional beauty from the fatal hectic with which they were a little flushed, and which had been increased by the exertion of coming down stairs. ** As soon as Martha, for such was her Christian name, had recovered her breath, which had been rendered short and rather difficult by the exertion of descending from her chamber, I entered into conversation with her on the circumstances of her affliction; a subject which, though in most cases gloomy and depressing, checked not for a moment the sweet smile which played upon her engaging countenance. She soon informed me that she felt she had the sentence of death in herself, and considered her illness as a voice from the tomb; and spoke of dying as one that was familiar with the awful topic. "I have neither love of life," she said, "nor fear of death: and although I am leaving the world when its prospects were become most flattering and alluring, I do not regret it; I have only one desire, and that is after more communion with God." There was a tear in her eyes, but it was not the tear of disappointed hope, or bitter regret, but only the tribute of nature, refined, but not destroyed by grace, and which, in fact, added a charm to the beauties of holiness, that so evidently invested her char acter. The whole strain of her conversation was so calm, so collected, so dignified, evincing such meek submission, such humble piety, such weanedness from the world, and such longing after immortality, that I gazed at her with wonder and delight, and left the house thinking and saying that I had scarcely ever witnessed any thing so seraphic. * * * Martha had been declining in health for some time; but on the eleventh of May last, on returning from public worship, she ruptured a blood-vessel in the lungs. **This attack of disease she received as an intimation that she must be ready for the speedy coming of the Son of Man. Among her private memoranda she had made the following entry relative to the event: "This dispensation of mercy brought eternity to my view, and in the evening I had the sweet assurance that sudden death could have nothing to alarm me." How strange will it sound to many to hear a young and beautiful woman, with all the ordinary, and some of the extraordinary reasons for wishing to live, talk of an event which would in all probability issue in death, as a dispensation of mercy. Yet this was neither unnatural nor irrational. All things work together for good to them that love God; and death is placed by the apostle among the privileges of the child of God. At the time of her attack in May, she was engaged in the bonds of plighted love to a gentleman to whom she was tenderly attached, and to whom at no distant period she was to have been married. It is in vain to suppose that she could turn from the altar to the tomb, as an object of contemplation, and from this dearest of all friends to the arrest of the last enemy, without a severe struggle between an earthly and a spiritual affection. The conflict was short, the victory complete; and it was at once the greatest effort and brightest triumph of her faith, to be made willing to give up even this dear object of her heart, and to depart to be with Christ. In reference to this event she sometimes said, "It is mysterious, but I know it is all right. * ** * My Heavenly Father knows what is best for me." "I never," says her sister, "saw greater firmness in her, than when she adverted to this disappointment of her hopes." As I did not apprehend from my first visit that her end was near, and as I was much from home, I did not again see her for some time; and O that all my young friends could have seen her as I then saw her, lovely in death, like a moss-rose bud nearly severed from its stock, and just ready to fall on the ground, with its opening beauties possessing still their freshness and their fragrance! There was not the shadow of a shade of impatience, anxiety, or fear, to becloud her beautiful countenance, to check the smile which irradiated her features, or to dim the ray of hope which glittered in her fine, expressive eye, as it turned to that heaven whither her heart had already ascended. What painter's skill could pencil the looks which I then saw? All was peace and more than peace: it was a peace that passeth understanding, rising into a joy unspeakable and full of glory. Christ, and Christ alone, was her refuge; and she confessed her exclusive dependence on his blood and righteousness for acceptance with God. She knew in whom she had believed, and was persuaded he was able to keep that which she had committed to him until the day of Christ. I pass over much that was said during that most solemn and delightful interview, to mention one remark: "Do you now feel any regret," I said to her, "that you are leaving the world so early, and when its prospects were becoming so attractive?" With an ineffable smile, she replied, "Our great business in this world is to obtain the salvation of our souls; and having secured that, I have accomplished the end of my existence." Glorious and immortal truth! Mighty sentiment! * * * A time was fixed for a last sad interview with her once intended husband. In this scene her faith shone forth in all its brightness, and patience had its perfect work. While all around were filled with poignant grief, she was calm, serene, composed. Having affectionately uttered some pious counsels to this friend of her heart, and pointed him to that heaven on the verge of which he saw her, she took her last farewell, and gave her last look with a tranquility and fortitude that surprised every one, and which proved that she was now enjoying too much of the "excellent glory" to suffer intensely from the rending of any earthly ties whatever. She looked up into heaven, and saw Jesus waiting to receive her spirit, and felt that she could leave for Him, even that friend with whom it was once her fondest worldly hope to tread the path of life in company. The scene scarcely ruffled her peace, or drew from her soul one longing lingering, look to earth, for heaven was fully in her view. * * * "In the midst of sufferings, too painful to describe," said her sister in a note, "Martha could smile, and tell us Jesus was near to her. Her countenance, at all times animated and happy, was unusually so now; it beamed with ineffable brightness, and was a strong and beautiful evidence that all was perfect peace within. When she could no longer articulate, she looked all we could wish her to say. About five minutes before she expired, her agonies ceased -she recognized all of us-and, as though to bid a last farewell, she smiled, and exclaimed, Happy, happy!" Blessed state of mind! to smile and exclaim, Happy, happy, even in the cold arms of death. So died Martha S. Her last farewell to earth was uttered with the consciousness and the feeling that she was treading at that moment upon the very threshold of heavenly glory: and who then need wonder that she could speak of happiness even in dissolution. As she drew near her everlasting home, she saw the lights of her Father's house, and unconscious of the gloom of the dark valley of the shadow of death, from the midst of which she beheld them, she gave expression to her feelings in a note of holy rapture, and left the world with accents which we may easily imagine were also the first she uttered as she touched the heavenly shore, "Happy! happy!" |