University of Virginia Library

CONCLUSION, BY THE TRAVELLER.

Having been pressed by my friendly host to prolong
my visit at the convent, it was only two days
after I had finished reading the manuscript, and
whilst I was still musing on its melancholy contents,
that the prior entered my apartment.

“I have come,” said he, “to make known to
you one of those remarkable coincidences which
the inexperienced are apt to imagine confined
to romances, but which I have lived long enough
to know are more common to real life. You have
just read the imperfect story of my poor friend in
time to be a witness to its closing scene. He is
now dying.”

“Dying!”

“So it is supposed; for his senses are returned;
and I have just been sent for to administer the
last rites of the church.”

“After what you have said,” I replied, “I suppose
I may be allowed to attend you.”

“Not as a stranger,” returned the good priest;
“but you have shewn that you have a better title.

A tear shed in sympathy makes men brethren who
have never before met; 't is a touching evidence
of our common descent.”

My heart was too full from what I had been
reading to continue the discourse, and I followed
the prior in silence.

As we entered the cottage, we were met by the
old woman, who desired us to wait a moment till
she had acquainted the lady with our arrival.

It seemed strange that a mere narrative should
attach us so deeply to one we never saw; but so
it was; the thought of meeting Rosalia made my
heart beat as if I had known her for years, and I
felt I know not what; perhaps it was most like the
feeling we have for a beloved sister — the purest,
and most delicate sentiment of which our nature
is capable.

After a few minutes Rosalia came out, and,
taking the good priest by the hand, led him to
the sick man's chamber. On their way he inquired
the state of her husband. She did not
speak, but, lifting her eyes upward, answered by a
look which said more than any words could have
told. I could wish always to remember that look:
it was not one of grief, nor even of melancholy;
it was all rapture — yet so solemn that it filled me
with awe; seeming to announce, while she prophetically

saw, the approaching beatification of
him she loved.

“Thou art worthy,” thought I, “to have been
loved to madness. There is no self in that look;
't is all Monaldi's, for thy soul is too rapt with the
thought of what awaits him to be conscious even
of thy own privation.”

The religious rites being over, the Prior returned
to conduct me to the chamber. At first
I hesitated, for I began to doubt if my presence
might not be an intrusion.

“Not so,” said the kind old man; “as my
friend you cannot intrude. Besides your interest
in the poor sufferer is already known to his wife;
and for him — he is now in a state reckless of all
human forms. I would have you see him; for
the death of a christian — the death in hope —
has no parallel in sublimity on our earth.”

As we entered the chamber Rosalia was kneeling
beside her husband, her head resting on his
bosom. She raised her head at our approach, but
did not rise. A faint smile passed over the face
of the dying man, and he beckoned the prior to
the other side of the bed; then, taking a hand of
each, he closed his eyes for a moment, and seemed
absorbed in prayer.

“I have been praying,” said Monaldi, when he

looked up, — “I have been praying that my life
might not pass away without profit to those I leave
behind me; not to thee, father, for thou hast long
known the virtue of sorrow; nor to thee, my
beloved, who comest now to partake with me this
triumph of affliction; but to the world; that they
might see in my life that Supreme Love, which
turneth the very misery from our misdeeds into a
cleansing fountain; that they might learn from
it, that affliction, rightly understood, is a spiritual
blessing.”

“Thou sayest well, my son,” said the Prior;
“for the sufferings of this world are healthful
medicine to the soul; even the holy apostles
tasted it. Let those who grieve then remember
the words of Him who suffered for us — `blessed
are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' ”

Monaldi continued, “Of worldly happiness I
have had my portion — perhaps, as much as mortal
could bear — but my strength fails.” Here he
stopped.

I now looked at Rosalia; but no description
can give a picture of her face at that moment.

After a few moments, the husband proceeded;
“Rosalia,” — she pressed his hand in token of
her attention. “Have we not known such happiness?
— 'T is nothing to that we shall know when

we meet again. You will not grieve then for the
little space that parts us — even now,” he added,
in a fainter voice; “for I feel that my hour is
come. Yet grieve not that it is so — 't is but the
beginning of peace, which passeth all understanding.
And — blessed be thy name, Parent of
good! for now know I that thou lovest whom
thou chastenest.”

He then crossed his hands upon his breast, and,
raising his eyes, fixed them upward, with such an
expression as I could hardly believe belonged to
the human countenance.

“This is not the mere crumbling of a mortal
body,” thought I — “its passage to dust — but a
revelation — touching our highest instinct, and
giving it evidence of the invisible world;” for it
seemed as if I could see his soul raying through
his eyes, and already pass into it; holding communion,
even by those bodily organs, with the just
made perfect. I was so overpowered by this holy
vision (for so I might almost call it) that my eyes
involuntarily fell — when I raised them again he
was gone.