The Middlebury register. [volume] (Middlebury, Vt.) 1850-1882, 1879-09-05
A BLIGHTED LIFE.

A BLIGHTED LIFE.
Edward was lying very low and nigh
unto death. His mother was spent
with long watching. Would / come
! and sit through the night with him?
so ran the note which came to me
one bright July day. There was but
one possible answer. lie was the son
of our minister's widow; her eldest
child and in the first flush of his beau
tiful young manhood. In form and
feature he SO closely resemblcd his
father that he seemed TO keep fresh and
bright the memory of the dear pastor
who rested from his labors among us,
little more than year before.
But beneath that lovely exterior lay
hidden the germ of a fatal weakness.
He seemed unable to heed tho warning
voice, 'Look not upon the wine when
| it is red"
A member of our church from early
childhood, his desires and hopes all
tended toward the true type of Chris
tan manhood. He purposed, after his
| own feeble fashion, 10 walk i'll wis
dom's ways, and each transgression
humbled him to the earth in contrition
for the evil he had wrought and the
sorrow he had caused.
But the strange, sad truth remained
ever the same. Neither his own re-
morse, the tears of his heart-brokcn
mother nor the prayers of his sorrow
ing father, availed aught against the
next temptation.
The fierce, uncontrolled appetite
would seize him like a strong man
armed, and carry him away captive,
| till, helpless and inscnsible, some
friendly hand would leave him at his
fathers door; the entrance of the
death angel into that home could hard
ly have been sadder. From Edwards
| lips | heard the story of his fathers
patient tenderness at such times. His
grief tor his firstborn was the real sting
OF death in his last hours.
| With his dying breath he entreated
and cxhorted the dear boy to conquer
in the strength of grace and for Christ
and the mother who would need his
young strength to lean upon, While
| that father lay sleeping his last sleep
Edward asked to be left with him alone.
| The groans that came from the closed
room, the strong cries and tears, pit
eous as they were, gave still a bright
|
that the solemn pledges unheard by the
sealed ear Of death would be recorded
on high.
| Alas for poor humanity, brief year
had but passed, and the dear boy lay
| on his death-bed, and death came by
his own hand as truly as if done by
bullet or knife
| In the late autumn twilight | went
to the house and to his room.
found him pale, wasted shade of
his former self; the radiant promises OF
his youth and the rosy strength of his
early manhood gone, all gone, forever.
The stamp and seal of death were on
that pallid brow. The fierce delirium
had left him for moment. He gave
me faint, sweet smile of welcome and
whispered a few grateful words that
made my heart ache to bursting with
infinite pity. | could not speak, but
seating myself near his pillow, l fam
ned him gently to relieve the oppressive
sultriness of the night.
| So the long, slow, sultry, awful right
wore on. With the faint, early dawn
came change. 1t was merciful in
that it gave quiet to his tortured body,
but his stricken, smittcn soul knew no
rest or peace. Down, down through
what depths of black despair lay its
unconscious wanderings The fright
ful objects of sight and sense had lost
their power.
He seemed, by some strange mctem-
psychosis, to be standing apart from
his own life and reviewing it; to be
looking at and speaking of his own
selfhood as n compassionate observer
might have done.
Sitting with my eyes fixed on the
ashen palcness of his cheek in the gray
| light Of the morning, and hearing the
words low from dying lips, can | ever
forget their awful import? 1t was like
entering the solitude of soul before
| its Maker. Never since Dante's vision
of the world of woe and retributive
Nemesis of the hereafter, has been a
revelation more unutterably, hopeless
ly sad. Ii melted my heart with a COM
passion that is beyond words, showed
me the value of the human soul as one
can only see 1t in the light of eter-
nifty.
Said he in pleading voice, ''IIe
always wanted TO do right-he always
meant TO, but-he always failed.
|
so weak! !" Along pause. "lf he had
his life to live over again oh! if he
might only live it once more, he
would"-Anothcr long silence, and
then in voice that curdled my very
blood, "But-it is all oyer-it is too
late-too late!"
His fathers remains rest in the family
lot of one of our church deacons, and
when Edward spoke again the words
were once more plea. "Bury him by
his father; let him sleep by that dear
father; he is not worthy of it,,
but his father wonld want him
there"
Almost suflocated by emotion, felt
that / must arouse him, when agaiu he
broke silence. This time he was look
ing at his own grave, aud his words
were, "They have done it-don't you
see the stone II is by his father. Yes,
that is his name" Slowly, as if read
| ing it, edward ii. Ray--and his life
was wasted, was failure" Suddenly
| leaned over and touched his forehead.
HIS eyes opened, and spoke. told
him OF the one who can save even to the
uttermost, and with whom it is never
too late, aud of the dying thief; point.
ed him to the Lamb of God, to the
blood which makes the foulest clean
If he heard or comprehended, he could
give no sign. The parted soul seemed
TO have left the poor, wasted body, bul
to hover about it with tender pity. In
vain ] pleaded, and looked, and looked
and listened for a sign. None was
given. ] waited and watched with al
: almost fierce intensity. / could not sur.
render the soul of the dear boy TO eter
nal despair. From time to time words
camc from the pale, blue lips, but they
bore the same hopeless burden of re-
, morse, were still "wild with regret, ,
/ till the sounds died away 10 an inarti
culate murmur.
Soon the mother and dear ones who
, had taken their needed rest gathered
around bis bed, and / left him will
: them for the few hours ere the wear,