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Mtnral Cabinet,
VOL. I.
.THE CABINET
Is published, every Saturday by P. L.
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From the Fhilatlelph.a Souvenir
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
•It is better to go to the house of
mourning than to go to the house of
feasting,’ was the sentiment of one.
who, whatever might have been his
errors or his frailties, was certainly
not subject to the imputation of hav
ing w ritten under the influence of dis
appointed feelings,* and whose situ a
tion had precluded him from the en
joyraent of those pleasures which he
condemned, and in whose reality In
so little confided. It is not the lan
gauge of the misanthrope, who had
been doomed to feel the anguish of
impotent repinings and unavailing re
grets,* but the conclusions of the wis
est of men—of one who had been ar
custom ed from his youth, to the cost
Iy banquets, arid the r y >1 s{fiend mi
of eastern magnificence. It is tie
sentiment, of a great and prosperous
prince, who had long yi Ided to the
seductive influence of the pleasures of
the world, and who in the undisturbed
serenity and collected wisdom of ma
turer years, when neither passion
could mislead, or temptations miscre
(lit, pronounced them ‘altogether van
ity, and .vexation of spirit.* ‘ To the
votaries of pleasure, many of the. pre
ceptsof this royal preacher of Israel,
will doubtlessly appear harsh sayings,
fraught with melancholy and dejecting
pictures, of the misery of rnan‘9 sub
lunniy existence. But they are ne
vertheless full of wisdom and instruc
tion, and the prudent ‘will lay them
to heart.’ The last scene of expiring
mortality is one to which it is necessa
ry frequently to refer in the regula
tion of pur actions, and one, which if
properly improved, will enable us to
art it with becoming dignity and com
posure. It teaches us to foum a pro
per estimate of human happiness am’
human glory, and diminishes that re
gret with which we leave them evi
fur a better world. It bumbles tli
pride of man, and teaches him if h
would look for strength and consol .l
tion in his last moments, to place a
proper dependence on Him, who is a
ble ‘to lift up the hands which hang
down, and to confirm the feebl
knees * In short, it reforms the heart
and disposes the mind to patience and
resignation,
l once had a friend, with whom I
lived in terms of the closest intimacy.
We had sported together in child
bond, and when worn down by fa
tigue, we reposed on the same .pillow,
and again rose to the same pursuits
We lisped our infant prayers at the
same kiiee, and were fed by the same
hand. Yet we were not brothers.
Time rolled on, and found us still
united. We trod the same path to
school, and went hand in hand in ev
cry improvement. In youth we. wen
alike in stature, in habits, iri temper,
and inclination. Perhaps there wen
scarcely ever two beings more close
ly united by so many various ties.
But our union, like all other earthly
Connexions, was comparatively of
but short duration. Manhood came
with its fares and its duties, and w
separated to wander down the jour
ney of life as we might. Increasing
years bad gradually unfolded a bias
towards different-professions, and t
pave the way for our success in these,
it became necessary to sacrifice the
endearments of home and friendship,
for the Unsubstantial honours of this
-fcorld. It is nut the least ot the nia
Hamilton, May 9, 1825).
ay vexatious, troubles,’ misfortunes,
uid disappointments which even the
most fortunate arc compelled to taste,
that the great diversity of human pur
suits and inclinations, comp djj us
to surrender the. ties of consau
guinity, and the endearments of early
associations; together with a thousand
little offices of friendship and ;dice
tion, which although they weigh noi
much taken separately, are continu
ally adding to-thesum of human hap
piness. I say we separated. But
it was not without an interchange of
expressions of our mutual sorrow and
pledges of unalterable fidelity. Ivia’
oy years have since passed nway.
and rime, and the vicissitudes of mor
tality, are beginning to plant the ho
press of their seals upon my brow
But memory, as she turns to view the
long vis:a of departed days, still
paints him to the imagination, beau
tiful and lovely as when we p tried;
It was on a beautiful still morning n
- % pi*il. that we took our leave of each
other, standing unde:* the porti
coos the village hotel, where we had
fast resided. We were surrounded
oy many friends who had assembled
to give and receive the parting bene
diction, flie sound of the burn, ami
the trampling of the horses feet, soon
announced the moment of departure,
and bounding into the stage, he was
out of sight in a moment. His fine
manly countenance was unruffled by
misfortune, although sorrow for his
departure from the scene of his child
hood, had filled his large black eje
with a swelling tear. His heart
beat high with hope—his step was
vigorous and firm. He went forth in
the pride of his strength, conscious of
the dignify of the station assigned
him in 1 lie universe. His soul was
filled with ambition, and his thoughts
dwelt only on fame, honors, and dis
Unction. With a heart formed for
the most.generous actions, he appear
ed qualified to excel in any pursuit,
and to draw after him the admiration
of his fellows, not as a reward, but as
1 tribute. In mind and pers hi, lie
was indeed one of nature’s nobility,
and fortune appeared willing to rais*
nim to that station, for which nature
sad designed him. Such was my
friend, Charles Montague, thirty
years ago. Bui what mighty rlimg
es has Ibis short space of time suffi eI
to bring aboui! To me Mr. Price
who am beginning to be an old man,
who am hurried by the increasing
declivity of the hill, to iny final rest
iug plate, it is diliii ult to contemplate
tiie vivid scenes ot my early recollec
tions without many painful emoti ns
But thanks to the influence of correct
principles, early instilled, I have not
to deplore any of those great ami last
ing aberrations Irorn the path of rec
titude, which mark a whole life by
their consequences. Mine is indeed,
‘the joy of grief,’ which dike the on in
orv of days that aie past, is mournful
and pleasing to the soul/ Forgive
therefore, the ioqua< ity w hich is so
natural to one at my lime of life, and
permit me to continue iny tale ot •< ti
er years,* since I write of that which
is always the most pleasing to the
gray head, to wit, of that time, ‘wheu
„s a strong man we rejoiced in our
race.’ For many y ears after our se
paration, we zealously maintained a
■ orresponylence, which for a while
seemed to defy: even the mutability of
auman things. But nine gradually
a ore away that ardour which sorrow
ould not quench and that fideL
, { y which misfortune could not
s;,ake. Amid the accumulation of |
business, and the multiplicity of
,ew relations to the world, our j
communications gradually diminish-:
ed, until they ceased entirely. Days,
m -tit I is, and years, rolled away, and
1 the ci npanion of my youth was sel
doin/h >ught of, save when his mem
ory crossed my mind in the hour of
solitary reflection, or the trumpet of
fame brought me the news of his ris
ing reputation. Ten years after the
period of our first separation, an unex
pected change in my affairs, brought
me once more within a short distance
f the habitation of my friend, and
vith a heart full of the most pleasing
inti- ip ttiotis, I prepared to pay him
I visit. These agreeable sensations
were however greatly diminished,
a lien on my nearer approach 1 heard
that he lay at the point of death, and
that, bis exit was hourly expected.
The memory of our early friendship
rush and lifto a torrent upon my soul,
and I flew on the wings of affection to
his snip. The servant met me at the
doorwith a bow without a smile, and
the dijectcd features of each succeed
ing inmate of the mansion, told me in
a language not to he misunderstood,
the awful solemnity of the scene
which was to follow. A few moments
was suflh ient to prepare my mind for
the interesting interview, and I was
ushered into bis chamber to witness
a spectacle whose memory still causes
the unbitided tear to start. His bed
was surrounded by strange faces who
appeared anxious to administer some
thing to his relief, but whose gloomy
silence told that human exertions,
were alike henceforth vain. 1 grasp
ed in agony the hand which had so
often been clasped in the cordial em
brace—but it returned not the token
oi recognition! Its wonted pressure
was no longer felt, and instead of toe
smile of joy, my eye met only a va
cant unmeaning gaze of idiotic sur
prise! The burning fever had depriv
ed him of the noble faculty of reason,
and little could be heard but incoher
ent exclamations, and unintetiible
sounds but half expressed. He some
times talked wildly of past events,
and of friends long since departed.
His friends were treated as strangers,
and the stranger lie called his ‘broth
er.* His eye no longer beamed with
its former lustre, and thoso hands
and those feet which were once
strong to perform their office,
were now cold and inanimate as the
earth from whence they were taken.
His enfeebled frame had dwindled to
a mere skeleton, a wanting strength
10 raise itself, * was moved by the
hands of oth- rs. His long flowing
I cks which rivalled even the raven
in blackness, were shorn from their
crown, and nothing was seen but;
0 ldness and putnlying sores! ‘Great
God!* 1 inwardly exclaimed, ‘is;
such the lot of man! Is this the end of
that noble and Godlike being, to.
whom we pay reverence, and whose
glory we so much admire! Whose;
bead is lifted up like the’tall cedais of
the forest, whose branches cover the
whole earth! But now how abject,
how impotent, and feeble! The lion
can roar, and the wolf can howl, to
his maker for food, and satisfy
his hunger, but thou art more
needy than they! The infant may
cry and he satisfied with suck;
but thou art more helpless than the
infant! Toy wants who can tell, and
whocan measure the fulness of thy mis
ery !’ As I was giving way toreflectioi s
like these, the first transports of grief
gradually subsided, and left me time to
prepare to witness the dying moments
of my friend, with more calmness
aru! composure. The tide of life was
last ebbing away, and in a few hours
the struggles of expiring nature won Id
cease, and ‘the immortal spirit deliv
ered no to him who gave it.’ It was
indeed to me a most solemn moment.
Let him who has born testimony to
the dying moments of the friend or
tiie brother whom he has loved as his
own soul, pourtray the feelings of my
heart, for he alone can know ilia
poignancy of my grief. In a short
timo the stillness which reigned in
the apartment, gave way to a gen
eral stir, and all became bustle and
anxiety. Friends crowded around
the couch of the departing spirit in
agonizing suspense, and again—all
was silent! Tle silver cord was lous*
ed, and the golden bowl was broken.’
That form which once glowed with
health and animation, whose very
sympathy showed the makers hand,
was transformed into a dull senseless
heap of dust. That spirit whi h had
so lately leaped at the sounds of
mirth ami gladness—who claimed as
a birthright, honours, titles and dis
tinction among his fellowmen, had 11 and
—we know not whither! Like the
meteor of the evening, his course was
short, brilliant and fleeting.
Around us burnt the flickering
lamps, that appeared to add sorrow
I to this picture of human wretchedness.
There in one place, stood phials of
medicine, whose healing powers had
failed; and in another were seen
the cordials and stimulants, whose
streiigthiug aid could not prolong the
stay of the disencumbered spirit.
Then followed the last pageant of
mortality. Tilt* sable palls, arid the
slow and sojenin tread of weeping
mourners, showed that the *inan wijs
going to his long home.* Such is the
end of man. ‘He cometh forth as a
flower and is rut down, he fleeth also
;a sa shadow, & < ontinuetli not.* When
in the glory of his days, we behold
him with wonder and aoiniration.
i We contemplate with feelliugs of as
tonishment and awe, the greatness of
his achievements;* and the splendour
brilliancy of his exploits. We trust
in the number and strength of his
resources, and say in our hearts,
‘What is like unto man, and who shall
I oppose the power of his arm.* But
no sooner has the sun of adversity
risen on his*strengtli, than he withers
away; aniTwc#beh"ld him the w -.-k
frail being, which the God of nature
inadehim, We see how vain is the
help of man in trouble, and how utter
ly insuffi ient is his strength in the
day of his calamity* As I have pon
dered on these things, surely said I,
callous indeed, must that heart be,
and lost to every sense of virtue and
humanity, who can wifness the last
moments of a fellow being, no matter
in what relation they may s'and to
each other without feelings at once so
lemn and painful. No matter how
humble the object, or how frequent
the occurrence, if properly consider
ed it will afford us both instruction
and assistence. The idea of encounter
jing death while at a distance from us,
few or no terrors to the
greatest part of man- They view
the period of its occurrence as so re
mote and so enveloped in a long chain
of circumstances and events, which
they fancy is to precede it, that like
the ostrich of the desert, who only
hides its head from its pursuers, they
repose in imaginary security, while
exposed to the dangers they are so
anxious to avoid. But wdien suddenly
aroused from their lethargy by the
struggles and groans of labouring
nature, and behold the giant wrestling
in fierce conflict with his victim, they
begin to fear and tremble, and are F4
on by a natural and easy course of re
flection, to consider that solemn and
important moment, when they shall be
jailed away frow this* vtoVld and its
endearments, to takfc up their abode
No. 49.