And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength,
for the soul that was passing,—the soul
that seemed looking so steadily and mournfully from
those large, melancholy blue eyes. It was literally
prayer offered with strong crying and tears.
When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and
took his hand, looking earnestly at him, but saying
nothing. He closed his eyes, but still retained
his hold; for, in the gates of eternity, the black
hand and the white hold each other with an equal clasp.
He murmured softly to himself, at broken intervals,
“Recordare Jesu pie—
* * * * Ne me perdas—illa
die Querens me—sedisti lassus.”
It was evident that the words he had been singing
that evening were passing through his mind,—words
of entreaty addressed to Infinite Pity. His lips
moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly
from them.
“His mind is wandering,” said the doctor.
“No! it is coming HOME, at last!” said
St. Clare, energetically; “at last! at last!”
The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking
paleness of death fell on him; but with it there fell,
as if shed from the wings of some pitying spirit,
a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a wearied
child who sleeps.
So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the
mighty hand was on him. Just before the spirit
parted, he opened his eyes, with a sudden light, as
of joy and recognition, and said "Mother!" and
then he was gone!
The Unprotected
We hear often of the distress of the negro servants,
on the loss of a kind master; and with good reason,
for no creature on God’s earth is left more
utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in
these circumstances.
The child who has lost a father has still the protection
of friends, and of the law; he is something, and can
do something,—has acknowledged rights and
position; the slave has none. The law regards
him, in every respect, as devoid of rights as a bale
of merchandise. The only possible acknowledgment
of any of the longings and wants of a human and immortal
creature, which are given to him, comes to him through
the sovereign and irresponsible will of his master;
and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains.
The number of those men who know how to use wholly
irresponsible power humanely and generously is small.
Everybody knows this, and the slave knows it best
of all; so that he feels that there are ten chances
of his finding an abusive and tyrannical master, to
one of his finding a considerate and kind one.
Therefore is it that the wail over a kind master is
loud and long, as well it may be.
When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation
took hold of all his household. He had been stricken
down so in a moment, in the flower and strength of
his youth! Every room and gallery of the house
resounded with sobs and shrieks of despair.
