23. CHAPTER XXIII.
WHAT BETTER EPITAPH!
Lucia stood for a moment gazing after him; and
something like a sigh issued from her parted lips. She
suppressed the feeling, however, which produced this exhibition
of emotion, and descended into Aunt Philis' cellar.
Aunt Phillis had taken in that one dim night a long
stride toward the land she was rapidly approaching. She
seemed now lying in her bed, to pass away in thought
from the real world around her into the world of memory,
or forward to that brighter universe where there is no
death, or suffering, or sighing.
“Peace to me, my chile, I'm goin' over Jordan,” said
Aunt Phillis, feebly, as she handed back the cup from
which she had drank a little tea; “I see a vision in the
night, and I'm a-goin'.”
“Oh, Aunt Phillis,” said the child, “You distress me
so by talking in that way! You are only a little sick,
and you'll soon be well.”
Oh, no, I won't my chile! Oh, no, I won't—don't think
I will! De Lord is bin a-callin' me, and I'm a-goin!”
After uttering these words, the old woman clasped her
hands outside of the counterpane, and closing her eyes,
seemed to be praying.
“Read me a little o' the good book, my chile,” she
said, at length,” 'pears to me it sounds like music—oh,
yes! like de blessed music ob de skies—oh, yes! read—
'bout it, chile!”
And the old woman closed her eyes, and sank back,
murmuring a prayer.
The child, with a sort of awe, opened the Bible, and
wiping away the tears which obscured her eyes, and made
the words swim before her, commenced reading those
words, in which the beloved disciple closes up his sublime
revelation.
“And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear
is crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God, and of
the Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either
side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare
twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every
month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of
the nations.”
Aunt Phillis murmured to herself in a low voice, “For
the healing of the nations! Oh, yes! for the healing of
the nations, black an' white!”
The child continued in a low voice.
“And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of
God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants
shall serve him: and they shall see his face, and his name
shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night
there: and they need no candle neither light of the sun,
for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign
forever and ever.”
The old woman repeated the last words in a low
tone, and sighed. The child read on, and came to the
words:
“And behold I come quickly, and my reward is with
me to give every man according as his work shall be. I
am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the
first and the last.”
“Oh, yes, he's comin' quickly to me,” murmured Aunt
Phillis: “I can hear him comin' quickly—oh, my God!
I see him comin' like the mornin' in the sky!”
“I am the root and the offspring of David, and the
bright and morning star,” read the child; “and the
Spirit and the bride say come. And let him that heareth
say come—and let him that is athirst come, and whosoever
will, let him take the water of life, freely.”
These words seemed to cause the feeble old soul a
pleasure and content too deep for words: and when the
child read, “He which testifieth these things saith, surely
I come quickly, Amen. Even so come, Lord Jesus,”
the weak lips repeated the words in a murmur, and the
thin hands were clasped in deep content and hope.
All that day the old woman lay in a sort of ecstacy,
her thoughts busy with the past and the future. Again
her memory seemed to grow preternaturally vivid, and
from the broken words she uttered, she seemed to be
again thrown actually back to the far past, and to live it
over again, with all its emotions, pleasant or bitter, glad
or sorrowful:—and then all these reveries would melt and
fade, and surging forward like a tide, which has retreated
only to collect its strength, the heart and soul, and being
of the dying woman poured upon those far mysterious
shores, wrapped for us in an impervious mist, but dimly
seen by those who are passing slowly from the present to
the future.
Who knows how far the eyes of the dying penetrate
into that hidden universe—or who can tell what visions
the soul, nearly divorced from matter, is capable of
beholding, even before the parting with its prison-house,
the body? Often upon the countenance of a dying child
may be seen an expression of intelligence most startling,
and the eyes will be full of a light which never illumined
them before. As often will a smile, brighter than anything
on earth, light up the little countenance, and
scarcely a tremor of the lip, a movement of the frame,
will interpose between those two mysteries, Life and
Death. It is not a sorrowful belief—the conviction that
the infant sinking thus, pulse after pulse, into the glory
of heaven, sees something of that glory as he passes from
the shadows of this world:—that before his eyes the
“pure lilies of eternal peace,” wave in the light of a new
universe, where the snapped earthly flowers will grow
again—that heaven opens before life has closed, and that
the lover of little children bends down, taking in his
arms the soul thus balanced on its wings, ready to take
its flight.
If the old dying woman saw not with the actual eye,
she still saw by faith. And this faith was perfect enough
to cover her face with a happiness which made Lucia
gaze wonderingly at her.
Lucia remained with her until a number of her friends
came; and then she went up to her room, and kneeled
down and prayed for her.
All that day Aunt Phillis' friends came and went with
the strange curiosity and interest which characterizes the
African mind, on such occasions. It soon came to be
known that sister Phillis was dying, and her children, who
lived all about the city, in different capacities, gathered
around her dying bed, and listened to her last words.
Just as the sun was setting, the old woman murmured
lowly, “Jesus, my Lord, come quickly,”—and then her
spirit took its flight; and a wail rose from the poor cellar,
which had in it something so wild and solemn, that the
careless passers by, stopped and looked down, and then
went on their way in silence.
Lucia lay on her bed and cried, until she was weak and
sick: thinking of the hundred kind things the old woman
had done for her—of the words of hope and comfort she
had uttered. Struck thus by another affliction, so soon
after the death of her father, the child's spirit sank within
her; and she sobbed and cried, and could only utter
broken words of prayer.
The night passed away, almost without slumber on her
part, and only toward morning could she snatch an hour
or two of slumber. No one can tell what a tempest of
thought and suffering raged in the child's heart, through
those long and weary hours. Her heart had begun to
twine its delicate tendrils around the affectionate old woman—and,
long deprived of a mother's care and love, the
child had found in the hearty goodness of Aunt Phillis,
that sympathy which she needed, and which nothing but
a child, or those who remember the feeling of their childhood,
will adequately realize. Now she was taken from
her, just when she was becoming a solace to the child;
and with her passed away also, that means of support—
of procuring daily bread—which Lucia knew not elsewhere
to seek.
But of this she did not think. Her whole heart was
full of weeping for her poor old friend: and when she
rose in the early morning, it seemed to her that the sunshine
had grown dark, the world colder and more weary,
that she was once more thrown alone and friendless into
the bleak, pitiless world, without a hope of happiness or
consolation.
She tried to read her Bible, but she had not learned to
surrender her whole heart and being at that altar, and the
tears in her eyes made the words swim. She closed the
book, and went mechanically to kindle her small fire—for
the room was bitter cold. She forgot that her last piece
of wood had been used—and gazing at the empty corner,
with a sort of dumb and vacant surprise, she went and lay
down on the bed again, and covered her head, and sobbed.
Hour after hour passed away, and the silence was broken
by no sound but the stifled sobs of the child. Ellie came
in once, but seeing Lucia sleeping, as she thought, went
softly out again.
About noon, a voice was heard from the cellar, where a
great concourse had gathered:—and the solemn tones of
this voice indicated that the speaker was praying. Lucia
rose and put back her hair, and went out on the stairway,
crying.
Leaning upon the railing, cold and solemn, Doctor
Fossyl listened to the prayer, and muttered to himself.
The speaker ended, and a hymn followed—one of those
simple hymns, which have scarcely any prescribed words,
but a fixed chorus, which all are acquainted with and sing:
“Come and will you go,
Will you go? will you go?
Come and will you go
Where pleasure never dies!”
The strain rang out—loud, solemn, and impressive—and
then it ceased: and the mourners seemed to be preparing
to follow the body to its long home.
One of the negro women came out and entered the door,
and stood looking on, as the concourse entered the carriages,
and moved on.
It moved on slowly, and turned into a side street, and
disappeared.
The woman covered her face with her hand, and seemed
to be crying. A cynical smile flitted across the face of
Doctor Fossyl, as he gazed, and descending the stairs, he
touched her shoulders, and said:
“Why are you crying?”
“For sister Phillis, bless de Lord!” said the woman,
“she done, gone.”
“Did you know her—have you lost anything by her
death?”
“Oh, no, sir; but I bin see heap of her, an' it makes
me sorry to be thinkin' of her. She come in my house—
she did—an' sot down to'ther day, an' I thought she
look 'sif she was a-goin'. But I say, `how well you is
a-lookin', sister Phillis;' but I didn't think so, only said
it like to make her easy. `No, I ain't a-lookin' well, says
she; `I ain't long for this worl', sister Jane,' says she. I
tole her not to be talkin' so—she'd soon be well, if she
stopped ironin' in the draught, with her door open, an'
she weak an' poorly. `No, I ain't goin' to git well,' says
she; `I know my time's a-comin', fast, an' I'm a-goin.
You won't b'lieve it till you see me on the coolin' board,'
says she, `I'm goin', fast.' I tole her, she was gittin'
down-hearted, but she said, she wasn't. `No, sister Jane,'
says she, `I ain't long for this worl'—I'm goin' over
Jordan, soon.' She ironed a shirt for me, but she got so
weak an' sick-like, I tole her she must stop—she wasn't
fittin' for no work—no, not at home. `I'm 'bleeged to
do my customer's clothes,' says she; an' after a little she
got up and went away. Soon after, she was took, an'
went to bed, and yesterday mornin' she knowed she was
a-goin' home. Her children wouldn't b'lieve 'cause she
talked sense—but she called 'em to her, an' shook hands
with 'em, an' tole 'em good-bye. `I'm good as gone,'
says she; `I'm goin' over Jordan,' bless de Lord.' Her
son jes' fell back, same like he was dead, an' she turned
round, and soon they found her dead. Poor Phillis,
gone!”
And the speaker covered her face, and began to cry
again. Then without waiting further she went away—
returning to her work, which had prevented her from
following her friend.
Doctor Fossyl looked after her for a moment—gazed
coldly at Lucia, who stood crying on the steps—and then
pushing by the child, went hastily to the apartment of Joe
Lacklitter.
Lucia sat down upon the steps, and covered her face,
and sobbing as if her heart would break, uttered the words
“Aunt Phillis! Oh, Aunt Phillis! why, why, can't I go
with you! Why can't I go with you!”
What better epitaph.
