CHAPTER XIX. "Tis the last blooming summer these eyes shall behold, For oh! its best feelings on earth have been chilled, SPRING came, and melted into the glorious summer; fragrance floated on the breeze, and verdure crested itself upon her native mountains. The Green River, on whose willowed banks Mrs. B had so often wandered in other days, with gentle murmur glided by the scene of her suffering. Could you have felt the inspiration of that scene of beauty, grandeur, and repose, you would have scarcely thought that the rude messenger of death would be permitted to invade so lovely, so delightful, so consecrated a spot. If you had stood on a rugged bluff on the east of that valley, and looked down, you would have seen the romance of nature; a proud bulwark of his mountains reared on the east and west, whose heights are tamed with the hand of husbandry, and whose sides are dotted with the habi tations of men; the neat white dwellings scattered along, embowered with foliage; the solemn temple where they worship under your feet, shooting its spire towards heaven; the green waters of the beautiful stream flowing gaily onward, "Making sweet music with th' enamel❜d stone, He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;" its course marked by the willows, that line its banks and betray its wanderings, now rushing down the hills from the north and the mountains around, and collecting its waters as they glide, by bearing their music to every dwelling in that happy valley; look away to the south, and follow him as he passes a defile where the mountains almost lock their giant arms, he rushes onward "And so by many winding nooks he strays Oh reader, you may traverse the world, and you cannot find a scene superior to this. Now turn towards the west, from the spot where you are standing, and you will see an humble dwelling on a little eminence within a few yards of the stream, whose music wanders through a woodbine lattice; it is a consecrated scene, for it falls upon ears which will soon drink the melodies of heaven. It is the home of Mary: it is sacred, for the Holy Ghost, with all his train of gracious influences, is there, and the ministering angels of the new covenant are hanging around her pillow. It is a scene of cheerfulness and triumph. This was the last year of her life, and for the most time she was confined to her bed; a year in which she suffered intense pain, without ever repining at the hand of Providence; a year in which she anticipated death with almost every setting sun, and yet no cloud or sadness came near her pillow. The reader's attention will be solicited for a longer period than is usually devoted to the closing scenes of such a nature for several reasons. There are some delightful features upon which we shall love to dwell. Her sick bed was a scene of unclouded cheerfulness, and not a thought of gloom shall cloud these remaining pages, for such a line in this picture had no original. It was also a scene of perfect neatness and good taste, and nothing was ever witnessed around it which did not awaken some generous or cheerful emotion in the heart. Besides, the closing scenes are preserved in the memory of her friends with a freshness which imparts to them an additional interest, and the materials for her history become more and more worthy of contemplation as she approached nearer and nearer to her Father's house; till for a few months before her departure, her sick room seemed to be the very vestibule of heaven, a celestial atmosphere lingered around it, which all observed and which all remember; for it distilled its cheerfulness and solemnity alike over every heart. It is necessary for the reader to be guided by these facts as he goes with me down to the end of her journey, for without their light he will fail to receive those impressions of her last scenes which constituted their peculiar features, for which no other death-bed I have ever seen or heard of has been distinguished. The last year of her life was wonderfully peaceful and appropriate to her living character; her dismission from life was serene, and almost imperceptible at the last. Death was delayed so much longer than she expected, that she was for a great while in an attitude of "looking for and hastening unto the day of the Lord." She wrote frequently in her journal during this period, and occasionally letters to her friends. Her Journal was all destroyed by herself a short time before her death, and only two of her letters are in my hands. But in the absence of better data, we will endeavor to delineate her "latter end" from her conversations and the few writings that remain. They are full of interest, for they are the exercises of a mind of the finest order, illuminated by the lights of a neighboring eternity. The following is the last letter she ever wrote to her sister Julia, who was her favorite correspondent; it is dated six months before her death: Thursday morning, July 24th, 1834. DEAR SISTER JULIA, Yes, very dear have you become to my soul, partner of my childhood, companion of my youth, and counsellor of my advancing years, my near, my dear though absent sister. Yes, Julia, my heart clings to all the dear objects of my early and later love; but this tie is not too strong to be severed; for there is no union of hearts on earth that must not be dissolved. If this world were our |