# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 58

CHAPTER XV.
"Wrapt in the thought of immortality,
Wrapt in the single, the triumphant thought."
Young.
Mrs. Arden during the fine season generally appropriated one day in the week for visiting town, which afforded Oriana a very convenient and desirable opportunity of seeing Philimore, and thus of faithfully fulfilling her promise, being regularly at each stated period set down at the corner of the street leading to his residence.
It was thus permitted Oriana to trace in its progress each gradual symptom of her lover's disease, until it assumed the last stage of decline. As the shades of night chase and obscure the light of day, she had seen his form passing away from the earth,—but as the renewed morn, as the sun in the glorious East, to rise again in a brighter and never-changing sphere;—the fair perspective serenely beaming on the mental vision of a soul impressed with virtue!
It was in one of these moments,—calm, yet solemn,—that Oriana paid her expected visit, and gave to Philimore the delight of seeing her, when his spirit, though composed, tranquil and resigned, free from this world's intrusive thoughts, yet beheld with ​pain the time pass by that was to deprive him of her presence. His affections—ever devotional—then seemed to fix themselves more intensely upon the Supreme Ruler of all things; next to which Oriana might hold her empire. At those periods when, as usual, awaiting the summons of her aunt, Philimore invariably placed his watch before him, and whilst tracing its movements, counting every second as it passed, looked alternately upon Oriana; his eyes sunken, yet soft and lustral in their glances, full of interest and affectionate concern for her.
During one of those intervals of indulgence to Philimore, Dr. Lovesworth, in accordance with the accounts he had received from Mr. Philimore, happened to arrive, and to be admitted into the apartment, where in a large elbow chair, pale and emaciated, reclined his loved young friend; Oriana, the amiable and affectionate Oriana, fair, fragile, delicate, seated by his side, a picture of patient grief. Philimore had taken his watch from the table, and held it in his hand: how quickly seemed the minutes to advance over the dial! It wanted but a quarter of an hour of the time when Oriana must leave him, perhaps never more in this world to behold her. No sooner had he made the sorrowful reflection, than the door opening, presented to his confused sight Dr. Lovesworth.
"My revered friend!" was all he could say, extending his thin and almost nerveless hand, which the Doctor took and pressed with ardour; his ​countenance expressed a calm benignity, while his words spoke peace and consolation.
A carriage stops; the sound of footsteps advance: it is the signal for Oriana to depart. The language of Philimore's sunken eye, as it turned upon her, pierced her to the soul. In attempting to rise, she tottered, and was obliged to reseat herself. Inexpressibly touched, Philimore, in a faint voice, said, "My Oriana, we part but to meet again—in—in Heaven!" A saintly smile, as if already in that blessed abode, re-illumined his countenance. It reassured the drooping Oriana. The urgency of the moment required the greatest exertion of her courage.
She rose to leave him; Philimore sighed, and raising her lily hand, pressed it fervently upon his lips.
"Go, my best-beloved!" he added; "I will not detain you; may Heaven bless and protect you from every pain and sorrow!"
His eyelids closed, as if in the act of silent prayer. By an involuntary motion, the head of Oriana sunk upon that of Philimore, and after pressing awhile her cheek upon his pale forehead, she suffered herself to be led from the apartment.
Dr. Lovesworth seated himself in the vacant chair, and attempted not to interrupt the pause—that sacred pause, as it were, reigning after she was gone. Aroused by the pain his cough occasioned him, Philimore raised his head, and beheld by his side that inestimable friend, whose name he had so often ​repeated. Amidst the sufferings he endured, what a consolatory balm did that friend afford him!
"Dear Dr. Lovesworth," said he, "I thank you most cordially for your constant kind attentions to me, and particularly for this present one, the benevolent motive which has urged your coming to see me. When we last parted I was much out of health, perhaps more so than you, in common with my other friends, might believe; and you formed no supposition that when we next met you would find me so near my end—even on the brink of eternity."
These words were spoken in a voice so firm, so free from human weakness, that Dr. Lovesworth instantly perceived the heart of his young friend was where it ought to be. It may be well supposed that the Doctor in his reply mingled the warmth of friendship with the piety and zeal of the true Christian, and yet maintained a hope, a possibility that the thread of life was not wholly spun.
"At present," resumed Philimore, "it is more uneasiness I feel than acute pain; experience however of the past holds out no favourable expectation, and leaves me but patience as a principal support, and which I hope to be favoured with an increasing share of as the exigences may require; at the same time I do not wish, my good Doctor, that you should deceive yourself; that blessed moment which will release me from all earthly cares is nearer at hand than you imagine; and as the time permitted me to see and speak to you is but short, I wish to ​unburthen my soul to you of some of its weightiest feelings.
"There is no balm so salutary," replied the Doctor, "as that which I am convinced you are in possession of—and which I conceive is at this day possessed by many—the powerful tendency of which to tranquillize the mind under bodily affliction, I have been delighted to see so strikingly exemplified in yourself." The Doctor paused, and then added, "Correct and useful as you have been, a pattern of filial tenderness, of Christian piety, exemplary in all your conduct, surely in reviewing your past life you cannot find much to press heavily upon your conscience. If too tender, too overcharged, we must allow something on that subject to the present debility of your frame; a state which, in extending itself to the mind, often magnifies past errors."
"Oh! not so," continued Philimore; "the powers of my mind, I grant, a few months back seemed greatly shaken and impaired; I could not bring it under subjection; I could not control its wanderings; I could not think of this hour but with the utmost dread: in proportion, however, as my bodily pains augmented and my frame dissolved, my mind regained its strength—more than regained it. It now soars above this earthly clog of matter; it longs to burst its prison, and soar to other regions, reposing entirely on its Maker's loving kindness for pardon for all its past offences. 'O Death! where is thy sting? O Grave! where is thy victory?'"
​ Triumphing over death, a divine glow pervaded him, and Dr. Lovesworth, whose soul was fitted to assimilate with such scenes, felt animated with like exaltation. Thoughts so high as those which occupy the dying spirit, yearning for immortality as earth recedes and heaven opens, cannot adequately be conveyed by language. Suffice it to observe, that the superhuman energies of the soul, become too big for its frail infirm casket to sustain, were made manifest in the state of Philimore, who in his efforts to express the sublime ideas which pervaded his mind, and filled his soul with a delightful anticipation of visionary bliss, sunk back, overcome, faint, and exhausted. A slight spasm seized him, and in the next instant he fell motionless, as if already in the arms of death.
The physician was sent for, and administered to his patient, who after an interval revived, and his friends in withdrawing had the satisfaction of seeing him sink into repose. His parents conceived that it might be a favourable symptom, and hope once more re-animated their doubting minds and restored again their drooping spirits.
Their son at length awoke, and for the first time since his long excruciating malady appeared invigorated from his slumber. His voice became more audible, and before the evening closed he again expressed a desire to converse with Dr. Lovesworth.
Seated on his couch, he related every particular in connection with his past intercourse with Oriana,—the secret trials, conflicts, and combats he had endured ​whilst under the influence of so powerful a passion. He deeply lamented the unhappy effects to which it had given rise.
"As long," added he, "as a fondness for existence lasted, it was impossible for me to surmount it. But having conquered and subdued all relish for the things of this world, it is now only to my Creator that I can indissolubly attach myself; all other loves having become subordinate, or such as spring from the centre and origin of their existence. Oriana viewed in this light is still dear to me, intensely so; but I love her as I ought to do, with the utmost purity of thought, involving in it nought of earth or self, wholly independent of which, it is her happiness, her immortal happiness only that fills my soul. Though duly impressed with a sense of my error, yet in humility I may add, I feel assured of pardon from Him before whose throne I must shortly appear. It remains for me also to hope, that the family of Oriana, when they hear that I am no more, will extend to me their charitable forgiveness, and also receive into their bosoms their beloved daughter. She is prepared for my dissolution, and awaits that event with the strength and fortitude of mind of which she is mistress. Tell the good General and Mrs. DeBrooke that if their daughter has swerved from her duty towards them, it is I alone who am culpable, and for that fatal error have paid the forfeit of a premature death; for though my complaint early assumed a dangerous tendency, yet of this I am conscious, that it might have admitted of ​amelioration. It was the barrier, the insurmountable barrier, that opposed our union."
"My dear Philimore," said the Doctor, interrupting him, and grasping the hand he held in his, "I wish it were in my power to recall you to existence; I wish it were not too late. Surely life passed with Oriana, that beloved object, may yet have charms for you. Why do you seek and wish for death? live, oh! live, my young friend, to bless, and to be blest by her. Had you made me your confidant sooner, you, together with the partner of your affections, should have shared my fortunes; my incomparable young friend, my son, my adopted son, with pride of heart I acknowledge it, since the demise of my father, who bequeathed to me so largely, I mentioned you in my will."
Overwhelmed with grateful affection, Philimore raised himself on his bed of languishing, and looking steadfastly at the Doctor, would have poured forth the effusions of his heart.
"Had I possessed a worthier friend," returned the Doctor, "he would have been preferred before you."
Raising the hand of that generous man, Philimore strained it to his bosom.
"Even life," said he, "passed with Oriana here below, would have no longer charms for me. My soul has made its choice, and nothing, no temptation however great, could have power to change it. To return to earth after having experienced a foretaste of Heaven!—impossible! Who would return a willing ​captive to his prison-house, his tenement of clay, when life and immortality shine upon the ravished view? Love and fortune, both, you would persuade me, are now mine. Yet however within my reach, however tempting they may appear, when I think upon the contrarieties, the restraints, the uncertainties that in this sublunary temporary sojourn would interpose their bane, the scene appears joyless, and I fly, rejoicing fly, to rest my hopes, faith, confidence on that base which is immutable, never-changing, never-ending; in a word, I fly to repose myself on the bosom of my God."
He sunk back, his eyes closed, and Dr. Lovesworth feared the sublime energy with which he had spoken might again have diffused its exhaustion over him. In closing, therefore, the curtains, he withdrew, leaving him to the care of his mother; and in the interval pursued the train of his own reflections.
"It was the love Philimore has borne Oriana," thought he, "operating upon a feeble frame, which has reduced him to the state we now behold him. And yet, had he power to revive, and to share with her ease, content, and all the enjoyments an elegant competency can afford, he would not! What more than this can better prove the real emptiness of earthly happiness! The mind when once detached from nature never feels the most distant bias to return to it, but, progressive in its states, looks onward to a kingdom whose joys are not, like these, ephemeral, but unfading and everlasting,—where no shadows mock the view!"
It was not long ere the Doctor was recalled to the ​couch of Philimore. The voices of lamentation that reached him from the afflicted parents assured him that the dying hour of their son had approached. He was supported on the bosom of his mother, while the distracted father held one of his hands, and, as the Doctor drew near, he extended to him the other.
"Generous, exalted friend," he said, "to thy care I commend my parents, as also my Oriana: you have smoothed for me the bed of death; I die contented."
Dr. Lovesworth pressed him in his embrace, saying, "Your parents shall be cherished by me."
"Tell Oriana," added Philimore in faint accents, "that my latest prayer was breathed for her happiness."
He paused awhile, then, raising his nearly dimmed eyes and feeble arms to Heaven, gave an affecting blessing to all around him; after which one convulsive sigh escaped him, and he sunk lifeless in the arms of his parents.
"So fades a summer cloud away;
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore."
Their joy, pride, and prop was gone for ever! the last breath had transpired—the vital heat was extinguished, never more to be re-animated.
The first tribute that Dr. Lovesworth paid to the memory of his young friend was to mingle his tears with those of the unhappy parents.
The mother's grief was intense, but not in any way comparable to the inconsolable nature of that of the ​father. That pride and ambition which had so eagerly led him to desire a wealthy union for his son, had received its greatest check, and with its total frustration he felt humbled to a level with the dust.
"Had I married him to the daughter of De Brooke," exclaimed he, tearing his silver locks, "oh, had I married him to Oriana, to the object of his affections, this would not have been,—I should not have seen this day's misery!"
Frantic with the agony of his feelings, he bewailed his loss, giving a lesson to those worldly parents, had such been present, who, from selfish views, most unjustifiably sacrifice the virtuous inclinations of their children,—a lesson by which they might have profited. He was insensible to aught besides his son, who lay inanimate and lifeless before him.
Notwithstanding the influence of his son's example, Mr. Philimore had never lived a life strictly moral; without a profession, or occupation of any sort, living upon his means, with several sons to advance in life, of whom Edmund Philimore was the elder, he had not been over circumspect in the improvement of his fortunes. The death of that son so much beloved above the rest, snatched from him in the full flower of intellect and vigour of days, called him at last, in the evening of his life, to reflection: and in the reformation of the father an unerring and merciful Hand might be visible, as, aided by the enlightened conversation of Dr. Lovesworth, he was led ​to the contemplation of that state in which alone he might ever expect to be united to his son.
The day before the funeral was to take place, Oriana was set down by her aunt at the usual corner, whence she drew near that house of mourning. The closed windows, the awful stillness reigning within, foreboded to her the melancholy catastrophe. Not daring to uplift the knocker, she rang the bell slightly, and being admitted, was immediately made acquainted with what she had feared. Scarcely able to sustain herself, she entered a back parlour, where she was received by Dr. Lovesworth,—that friend so much esteemed by the dear deceased and by herself. He advanced affectionately towards her; compassion and benevolence mingled in his tones and looks as he offered her a seat, into which she sunk, pale and trembling: however long that moment might have been anticipated, the trial seemed infinite and beyond her strength.
"Be composed, my dear young lady," said the Doctor, placing himself beside her: "it is true our loved friend is no more an inhabitant of this sorrowing sphere; we are taught to believe that ere now he has entered upon a state preparatory to final blessedness, from which there are few, I imagine, who would recall their friends."
Oriana could reply only by her tears, which at last flowing plentifully, gave relief to the feelings she had been struggling to suppress.
"It was a happy release from human infirmity," ​continued the Doctor, "prepared as he was for those beatitudes upon which he is about to enter. The superior excellence of our religion teaches, that when the mind, from its elevation in heavenly knowledge, has raised the affections and its thoughts above the external things of earth and matter, we contemplate death under quite a different aspect;—creating in us such sweet influences of joy, that our beloved brethren, under one common Father, have attained what we ought all to be in search of, the heavenly goal, that rather than repine at this their advancement, we sincerely felicitate them. Natural affections are agreeable to our natural state, and he who does not feel them is a monster; but truly Christian minds, submissive to the will of heaven, know how to keep the natural in subordination to celestial loves. Let the loss of our friends give encouragement, a fresh stimulus to overcome all that would oppose us in the life of goodness, when we shall be brought nearer to them, even in our spirits, perhaps, to hold pure intercourse with them; and when the last moment comes, how short will be the transition, how calm, how blissful—even like to Philimore's—to fall asleep in one world, to awake in another, those heavenly regions, where every pure desire or wish of the heart is instantaneously gratified, where those we have so much valued here will reappear to bless our sight! Such, dear Miss De Brooke, are the contemplations to which I would gladly direct your thoughts."
​ Language so consolatory was not without its due effect. Mrs. Philimore then entered, to whom the sight of one who had been so much beloved by her son revived impressions deeply affecting. Oriana was strained to her bosom, and they mingled their tears together.
The sorrow of Oriana for the irrecoverable loss of Philimore, by the hand of Death, was infinitely assuaged and softened by preceding circumstances; and when she compared what she then felt, to what she had formerly done, when she first awoke to the sudden frightful impression of having for ever lost his affections, how great seemed the difference! Then, truly inconsolable, nought was presented amidst the desolation of her feelings that could offer relief.
Mrs. Philimore possessed a mind so truly resigned, patient, and submissive to the decrees of Providence, that in effect she needed not any great exertions of self control to enable her to endure her loss with fortitude. Having subdued the tears naturally excited by seeing Oriana, the conversation she held with her, in which the whole singular strength of her mind was displayed, in addition to the Doctor's late discourse, acted powerfully upon Oriana, in teaching her a fresh lesson of resignation. Feeling herself equal to a task that one might have supposed to call for the utmost stretch of human courage, she expressed a desire once again to behold her Philimore.
Yielding to a request that was made somewhat in ​the language of entreaty, the mother of him whose earthly remains they were about to witness led the way; as they were quitting the room. Dr. Lovesworth, gently laying his hand on Oriana, said, "Are you assured that you have sufficient resolution? Recollect that it is a picture of mortality only that you would view, whence all that composed the life or being has departed, leaving but those gross particles, that material covering, which is to return to dust, sent for a time but to fulfil its purposes here. It is not a spectacle to convey peace, but rather the contrary."
Perceiving she still made a motion to follow Mrs. Philimore, he added, "But if your mind is strong enough to bear it, I will add nothing further to detain you: the melancholy sight of the dissolution of the human body is not without its utility; it shows us the monstrosity of evil, of which it is the type, or corresponding image!"
Oriana shuddered, and the Doctor, in order to raise her thoughts to more sublime considerations, said, "The soul of our Philimore, in its kindred spheres, will assume a spiritual form, not subject to decay, substantial, bright, perfect, in harmony with its conceptions, and its elevation in Truth and Goodness."
Doubtful whether to proceed, Oriana hesitated; but the voice of Mrs. Philimore encouraged her, and she reached the chamber of death. How great was its solemnity! Mrs. Philimore moved before, and approached the bed. Oriana found her strength ​fail: the whole attention of the hapless mother became absorbed; she had removed the covering which shrouded the once intelligent features of her son,—the soul once beaming there—how changed! how faint the resemblance!
In low and plaintive accents she called upon Oriana to look; alas! she could not. The recent observations of the Doctor filled her thoughts; and why, wherefore, in one fatal moment of indiscretion, deprive her mental sight from any longer beholding the saint-like smile, the saint-like image, the countenance her Philimore had presented to her at their last interview—rob herself of that beautiful angelic expression for the contemplation of the present, which would leave its traces equally indelible? During the awful reflection and suspense which succeeded, again the semblance of Philimore passed before her inward sight, again his last words and blessing sounded upon her ear; a seraphic light and meek submission dwelt around him, as he seemed to whisper, "Weep not, my Oriana, I am happy!"
The lovely vision enwrapt her soul. Mrs. Philimore said, "Oriana, look!" Starting at the sound, her every nerve shook, and she feebly uttered, "I cannot!" Mrs. Philimore pressed her lips upon the cold inanimate clay, and again veiling that face, overshadowed by the hues of mortality, in silent anguish led Oriana from the apartment where Philimore in calm composure, his soul returned to its native dwelling-place, ere passion had taught his breast to throb with ​other feelings and emotions, in all the purity of genuine devotion and infant simplicity, fixed on the beatitudes of eternity, yielded up his spirit.
"O weep not for him, 't is unkindness to weep;
The weary weak frame has but fallen asleep.
No more of fatigue nor endurance it knows;
O weep not—O break not its gentle repose."