Our director had called in the course of the morning: he pitied the affliction of the family, and conversed with the excellent youth now approaching to the close of a virtuous life. Kenelm wished to make a general confession; the priest knowing this to be, in his case, superfluous, and doubting if his mind or bodily strength were sufficient to such a purpose, consoled him, and persuaded him to defer it. In the evening he called again, and proposed to me the administration of the sacrament of extreme unction; undertaking to prepare the cure of St.

Agricol, the parish-church. The viatic.u.m was, of necessity, to be omitted on account of the vomiting. Kenelm, though exhausted by this discharge, yet on account of the movement which it occasioned, and from painful and uneasy sensations, was unable to sleep: he called aloud several times the name of his brother, recollecting perhaps that he had not seen him during the day, adding, "He is playing alone in the field."

His three younger sisters had retired to their chambers, just before the arrival of the priest with the holy oils.

I said to him, "You will be glad to see M. l'Abbe:" he a.s.sented. The priest, addressing him, said, "You see this is the crucifix?" he answered, changing his language immediately into that of the priest, "Oui, Monsieur;" and devoutly kissed the sign of salvation. The expression of his countenance, during the extreme unction, was that of joy mingled with surprise; as of one delighted with the approach of death, and understanding now, for the first time, that it was near. No doubt was entertained but that he knew what was going forward, and, in hope, set the seal to his faith. The priest and his attendant retired.

Kenelm's mother approached the bed: "Will you pray for me------" she had not force to add, as she wished, "when you are in heaven?" He said, "Yes, I will, if you will not cry: why do you cry?"--"To see you so ill."--"That is the reason; yes, I am very ill:" he expressed a wish to repose himself, but could not sleep; the fermentation of the gangrene was consuming his bowels.

I sent for M. Breugne again at ten o'clock. "I am giving you an useless trouble; but can any thing be done to relieve him?" Breugne looked at him attentively, and turning away, said, "He has not two hours to live."

My eldest daughter, in a movement of grief and despair, cried out, "Sir, you abandon him; you have not even felt his pulse." Breugne, in a compa.s.sionate and placid manner, said, "If it will be a satisfaction to you, Mademoiselle,--" and felt the wrist: "he has no pulse that can be counted." I went up with Breugne into my younger son's chamber: "Il dort; laissons-le; je viendrai demain de bonne heure."[77]

Notwithstanding Kenelm's satisfactory behaviour during the religious ceremony of which he had been the subject, I wished for more positive a.s.surance that his reason was restored to him, and that he was aware of his state: I wished, as far as I might, to comfort him, and prepare him for his end. The task was most difficult: thirty days before, youth and the expectation of a long life were his: a month had been pa.s.sed in a dream from which he was now awakened but to die. In his weak state, how enter on such a topic? I endeavoured to lead to it. "Do you love me, my dear son?"--"Yes, I love you; as I ought; you have great virtues."--"And great faults."--"It is not for me to judge of that."--"Do you forgive me the faults I may have committed in regard to you?"--"a.s.suredly I do." He signified that he should be obliged to vomit, and I withdrew; nor could I afterwards excite him to speak, though I frequently drew near the bed for that purpose, and, at times, gently called him by his name.

His last words were words of charity, of pardon, and of peace. His father and mother took one of his hands in theirs; it was cold, colder than afterwards in death: he seemed unwilling to be thus disturbed; they laid the hand down, and, with their eldest daughter, awaited the end in painful and trembling anxiety: he appeared to suffer, but to be so oppressed as to be unable to give expression to the sense of what he suffered. The hour of midnight sounded: his last agony came on; and, within ten minutes, he expired on Sunday morning, the thirtieth of September, aged twenty years, four months, and twenty-five days.

The affliction of his parents and sister, who were fully sensible of the value of what they had lost, needs not to be described. The exclamation of Antoine Leturge, the domestic, the other witness of this scene of woe, was simple and expressive: "Il est mort, lui, qui etoit si bon!"[78] As they gazed on the awful object before them, the sister said, "His eyes ought to be closed;" the mother, without due recollection at the moment, made a sign to the servant: he, with right feeling, gently said, "C'est au pere a faire cela:"[79] and the father did it.

After attending to the due arrangement of the chamber, and of the precious remains, I went up stairs: the doors of the chambers of my two sons were close to each other; I was strangely struck by the sight of the open door of the untenanted chamber, and stopt a moment to recover force to enter into the other. I saw the flushed face of my only surviving son through the gauze that surrounded the bed; I heard his breathing, too full, but tranquil and equal. I withdrew, and took a few hours troubled sleep on the couch on which both my sons had commenced their dreadful malady.

In the morning, a table was placed, according to the usage of the country, at the door of the court of the house, with paper and pens for those who wished to signify their condolence with the family, to write their names. The list of names was numerous: among them some one wrote, "Tous les honnetes gens de la ville d'Avignon."[80] It was never known who paid this tribute to the virtues of the deceased. I cannot forbear to mention, that the man who had given him lessons in fencing, a hardy soldier who had seen much military service, was so shocked by the news of his death, that he fainted in the street, and was led home in a weak state: this man was not advanced in years, but of the middle age, stout, and of high spirit.

Before mid-day, the body in its coffin was taken to a room on the ground floor: a shirt and sheet served, according to the custom of France, the purpose of the woollen shroud: the head was raised on a pillow: the hands were fixed, as we still see them on some ancient tombs, in the posture of prayer: a small crucifix, the same which he had pressed to his lips the evening before, was placed on the breast: wax tapers and incense were burnt; the latter in more than ordinary quant.i.ty as a preservative from infection. The lid of the coffin is not, at any time, fastened in the south of France, not even at the time of interment: it is then laid evenly upon it; till then it is placed obliquely, so that the upper part of the body and the feet are seen. The face of the deceased now bore no sign of suffering; the features were composed, and seemed to indicate a tranquil state. Owing to the excessive cold which, before death, had gradually spread itself over the body, the muscles had become instantly rigid, and it had been impossible to close completely the eyes and mouth: so that the separated eye-lashes, and a fine set of teeth, white and regular, added to the illusion produced by what seemed an expression of thoughtfulness. Death looked like sleep: it required an effort of reflection to be convinced of the mournful reality.

On the morning of the first of October, the clergy of the cathedral came to the house to convey the body to the church: they were requested not to begin their chant of the office for the dead, till at such a distance as not to be heard by the surviving brother. The church was filled by a crowd whom divine charity, or the best feelings of humanity, brought to a.s.sist at the solemn rite, and to witness a scene which the early youth, the well-known virtues, the afflicted state of the family of him who lay before them, conspired to render interesting. High ma.s.s was celebrated: the body was then carried to the cemetery to the north of the city, and interred towards the middle of the wall enclosing the cemetery on the north; the head resting near the wall, the feet turned towards Avignon.

Eighteen ma.s.ses, without chant, were said for the repose of the soul of the defunct. On Friday following, high ma.s.s was again sung, when, according to custom, the friends of the family were invited to be present: a great concourse again attended to join their prayers to the powerful intercession of the spotless victim, and testify their sympathy and compa.s.sion.

On a tablet of white marble, inserted in a sepulchral stone from the quarries of Barbentanne, is inscribed, in the Latin language, his name, his country, his religion, his age, and the date of the day and year of his death. Henry Kenelm was tall, more than five feet ten inches in height, strong and well-made, but not large-limbed; with light hair, dark blue eyes, and dark eye-lashes, and a fair complexion. The expression of his countenance was, like his mind, benevolent, frank, cheerful, and intelligent. When we were at Florence, a year after his death, a cast, from a statue in the public gallery, was sent to our lodging as a model for drawing. All of us were struck by the resemblance of this bust to him whom we regretted, whose features were still so fresh in our recollection. Antoine was called; the bust was shown to him; nothing was said: "It is like M. Kenelm," said he. My son took two copies of this bust: the original is an _athleta_, as it is called, bearing and looking down upon an urn: it is the third or fourth statue from the entrance of the gallery on the left hand. We showed the bust to a friend: "It is like the son whom we have lost."--"Your son was a very fine young man." The face of the statue is certainly handsome: that of Kenelm had more animation. His manners were those of good society, wanting nothing but that ease and confidence which time and experience would have given.

The friends who endeavoured to console me, employed, among other topics, that of the danger of the world to youth. The argument proves too much.

A father is not reconciled, by the apprehension of a danger, uncertain, and (in this case it may not be presumption to say) improbable, to the loss of a son whom he has reared with careful and anxious thought, to whose future life he looks forward with pleasing hope. The Greek proverb indeed says, "He, whom G.o.d loves, dies young;" but we trust that many who do not die young are beloved by G.o.d. More effectually did the priest at Avignon console me: he knew, as confessor, the interior and the conscience of Kenelm: "Je vous reponds de son salut; c'etoit un fruit mur pour le ciel: Dieu l'a cueilli, et l'a mis dans son grenier."[81] The Almighty Father of all, whose wise providence sends afflictions, who knows when those whom he is pleased to call to himself have well finished their course,--he can give a.s.sured comfort, and this a.s.sured comfort he was graciously pleased to impart to the parents of Henry Kenelm.

Mean time let me hope that this example of faith and piety, of filial submission and fraternal love, of application to study, of patience, mortification, chast.i.ty, will not be lost; that some will be reclaimed, and many edified.

To my children especially, I recommend this memorial, written with tears of mingled joy and grief: they have lost a brother, but they possess the remembrance of his virtues, the knowledge of his felicity, the benefit of his intercession. May they ever bear in mind that "every good, every perfect gift cometh from above;" that to

"Him alone is glory," who "in crowning our merits crowneth his own work."

[Greek: Doron toi kai ego, teknon phile, touto didomi.]

I will now relate an occurrence, on which I request the reader to exercise his judgment temperately. He will readily believe that I have not invented it: this is not an age in which credit is given to visions or honor to visionaries.

In the night between the 30th and 31st of October, thirty entire days after the death of Kenelm, his parents retired late to rest; in fact, at one o'clock of the morning of the 31st. As they were composing themselves to sleep, they heard a noise as of the breaking of a small stick. To me this noise seemed to proceed from the cabinet or dressing-room behind the bed; my wife heard it as from the commode or drawers opposite the foot of the bed. We asked each other what the noise might be, and compared what we had heard. Within a minute, my wife, who had raised herself in her bed, asked me, "What light is that?" I saw no light, and asked, "Where?"--"On the drawers, brighter than any candle."

She proceeded to describe what she saw: "Now it rises and grows larger.

How beautifully bright! brighter than the most brilliant star. What can it mean? it is very strange you don't see it." I thought so too; but, to encourage her, said, "Compose yourself; it can mean no harm." She went on: "It still rises and grows larger: now it turns towards the window--it takes the form of a dove with the wings spread but--it has a bright glory all around it--it looks steadily at me--it speaks to my heart, and tells me that my dear Henry is happy--it fixes a piercing look on me, as if it would make me feel what it means. Now I know he is happy, and shall lament no more for him. There--now it has disappeared."

Though I had not seen the light, I could see the face of my wife while she was looking at it, and the tears glittering as if a bright light pa.s.sed through them while they fell down her cheeks. The French word would be _ebrillantees_. There still remained a suffused light in the room, particularly on the wall above the drawers, as of the reflection of a nearly extinguished fire. This was observed by both of us. It lasted about five minutes, growing gradually fainter, and at length failing entirely. While looking at this suffused and darkish red light, and reasoning with myself how or why the bright light had not been seen by me, I remarked, on the floor, by the open door of the cabinet, the reflection of a veilleuse, or small night-lamp. These lights are made of a single thread of cotton half an inch long, steeped in melted wax, and, when dry, inserted in little flat pieces of cork, which are floated, while the cotton is burning, in a small quant.i.ty of oil. This night-lamp was placed in the remotest corner of the dressing room, which went the whole length of the bed-room. I saw its reflection on the floor only, and only so far as the open door permitted it to be seen. "This"

said I, "cannot be the cause of the suffused light; still less can it have been the cause of the bright one." While I was looking, first at the suffused light, then at the reflection of the lamp, the former disappeared; it was plain, therefore, that it had not been caused by the latter.

In the morning we visited the tomb of our departed son, and returned thanks to G.o.d. During the whole of the scene which I have described, which lasted about half a quarter of an hour, my wife's behaviour was sufficiently composed and recollected, was consistent and rational, free from affectation or enthusiasm. A sudden and transient apparition of an illuminated dove with a glory might be considered as the work of fancy; but here this appearance was prepared for and followed by circ.u.mstances, in which the imagination could have no part. The attention of her who was to see the vision was directed, by the noise preceding it, to the place where it first appeared; while I was roused by the same noise, but heard by me in a different part of the chamber, as if I were to be, as in the main I was, a witness only. I repeat, the suffused light was seen by us _both_ for four or five minutes. Besides the form which the bright light a.s.sumed to the eyes of my wife, the circ.u.mstance of its being seen by one of the parties only, without weakening the force of her testimony, is conclusive against its being either a natural or artificial light; and her testimony, aided by mine, as to the concomitant circ.u.mstances, proves it to have been a supernatural one.

The house looked into a court; there was no house opposite from which lamp or candle could be seen; the moon, whatever witty people may be inclined to say of the influence of the moon in this case, was but four days old: besides, the window shutters were closed, and excluded all lights, artificial or natural.

To use the words of a learned, rational, and respectable old man, the cure of St. Agricol, to whom I related the matter, "Ce qu'on voit, on voit." True,--what one sees, one sees; but the scripture, with that intimate knowledge of human nature evident in its every page, speaks of some who "will not be persuaded even though one rose from the dead."

The term of thirty days has been observed in the catholic church as that at the end of which revelations have sometimes been made of the happiness of departed souls.

I will now proceed in order with my narrative, but will first, to conclude this subject, transcribe the affecting prayer for the dead in the canon of the ma.s.s, which, not having found its way into "The Book of Common Prayer," will be new to many of my readers:--

"Memento, Domine, famulorum famularumque tuarum N. et N. qui nos praeecesserunt c.u.m signo fidei, et dormiunt in somno pacis: ipsis, Domine, et omnibus in Christo quiescentibus, loc.u.m refrigerii, lucis, et pacis, ut indulgeas, deprecamur; per eundem Christum Dominum nostrum.

Amen."

FOOTNOTES:

[75] He has the typhus fever; and, to judge by the gravity of the symptoms, he has had it for eight or ten days: he must have taken it from his elder brother, whom I have not yet seen.

[76] It is all over with _him_: let us save the other; let him be taken up to the second story, and let his sisters not even set a foot on the staircase.

[77] He sleeps: we will leave him alone: I will come again early to-morrow.

[78] He is dead; he that was so good!

[79] It is for the father to do that.

[80] All the worthy people of the city of Avignon.

[81] I answer to you for his salvation; it was a fruit ripe for heaven: G.o.d has gathered it, and placed it in his granary.

CHAP. XIX.

On the morning of the funeral, M. Breugne called a little before ten o'clock, the time appointed to the clergy, led me up into my son's chamber, made there a long visit, gave me to understand the hour to be earlier than it really was, returned into the salon, and kept me there for some time in conversation. When he had retired, I went down to the room where the body of Kenelm had lain: it was gone. I stood some time lamenting the disappointment of my purposed farewell; blaming the well-meant and successful efforts of Breugne to deprive me of this sorrowful satisfaction, and renewing the impression of the view I had taken the preceding evening of that which I was to behold no more. The crucifix lay on the table; I took it up; and, before leaving the room, was preparing to extinguish the tapers which were, by chance as I thought, left burning. The femme-de-chambre called out to me, "Monsieur, il ne faut pas faire cela: les cierges lient la famille a ce qui se fait dans l'eglise."[82]

It is easy to call this arrangement superst.i.tious: there was good sense, and a sense of decorum in thus declaring, by external signs, our partic.i.p.ation in the office in which we had so dear a concern.

Whatever man loves or esteems highly, he endeavours to represent to himself by symbols. Friends set a great value on those tokens of friendship which they may have received as presents; even to become accidentally possessed of any object, however trifling, that belonged to a friend, is a cause of pleasure. Portraits are precious, not merely as works of art, but as reminding us of those whom we delight to remember; and none refuse to venerate the images of saints, but those who make no account of the saints themselves. In Italy, in the salons of amba.s.sadors, I have seen the thrones of their several sovereigns, to connect by these emblems the representatives with the represented,--ceremonial so necessary to the maintenance of authority, that the Spanish minister told his king, "Your Majesty's self is nothing but a ceremonial;"--etiquette so essential to the good order of society, that not even the most unpolished reunion subsists without it: these are but modes of expressing meaning by signs. In war, in politics, in civil contracts, in common life, men universally thus express themselves; and why not in religion? Those who quarrel with the shadow are angry with the substance that throws it.

I said to M. Breugne, "Have compa.s.sion on me. It is not my fault that I did not know you sooner, but a great misfortune it has proved to me: you might have saved my elder son. You would not have allowed the younger to perish under your eyes." Breugne said, "What you have suffered is horrible. On the second day of my visit to your younger son, I met at the door the coffin of the elder. Do not let us despair as long as your dear boy has life. I will not deceive you; you shall know of his state all I know myself." He gave me to understand that he wished me to determine the number of his visits each day, being unwilling, as I supposed, to appear desirous of making up by their frequency for the smallness of the fee usually given to French physicians. I said, "Save my son; spare no pains that may be necessary to that end: come as often as your visits may be of use to him." He said, "From the first I have fixed on a plan in regard to him, which I shall not have occasion to change: that plan will succeed, or nothing will. So many days have been lost, that he must have as much both of nourishment and medicine as he can take with advantage; but I must watch him very attentively to find out the quant.i.ty of both, that he may be able in his weak state to bear and to profit by."

Never was greater zeal, activity, and judgment exerted than by this worthy man: all was not more than enough; for never had human being such a struggle for life as had this youth. His delirium inclined to stupor.

Fomentations of aromatic herbs were applied to the head; sinapism was applied to the soles of the feet and kept on for eight and forty hours; blisters were laid on the back and on the legs; yet it was with difficulty that he could be awakened or excited to take nourishment or medicines. In truth they were, for the most part, especially towards the conclusion of his illness, poured into his mouth and swallowed instinctively, without an effort of the will. In this manner he took, by dessert-spoonfuls, more than a bottle of Malaga wine a day, and this for several days following. On the last three days of his illness, the quant.i.ty of musk administered was, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five grains.

I mention these particulars for the purpose of showing how perilous was his state. I have not medical knowledge enough to do justice to M.

Breugne's treatment by any detail I could give of it.

During these last three days the anxiety of Breugne was extreme. "I suspect by her uncertain answers to my questions, that the old garde malade sleeps in the night: let Antoine sit up and watch the nurse. We do not know precisely when the fever began, but it must soon end: the least negligence may be fatal." At his first visits, early in the morning, he used to ask the servants, "Ou en sommes nous?"[83] before he would enter the chamber of the patient. Every thing portended his death.

His mother afterwards said to me, "I had taken out the sheet to bury him in; it was as well for it to be ready." Breugne, though he could neither feel nor give hope, would not despair, nor relax his efforts. An unfavourable symptom occurred,--the breaking out of red spots on the skin. "It is all over," said I to Breugne; "the little girl, whom I lost fifteen years ago, had the same appearance the day before she died."--"Il ne mourra pas pour cela;"[84] and he did not die. On the sixteenth of October, in the evening, the fever left him. At this time, Breugne, after a careful examination, said, "Il n'a rien--there is nothing the matter with him: but wait till to-morrow morning; it is too soon yet for me to a.s.sure you of his safety."

On the morrow, Breugne p.r.o.nounced him out of danger. It was pleasant to see with what delight, with what affectionate exaltation, he contemplated his patient, standing by his bed-side, taking snuff, and hardly refraining from tears. The patient, who had been too weak to say any thing the evening before, had now recovered a little strength and a little spirit of fun. "Why does he not go away? He has made his visit."

This was said to me in English. Breugne asked the meaning: I told him, and then said in French, "Let Mr. Breugne enjoy the view of the good he has done." He did enjoy it most cordially and disinterestedly.