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1852.]
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death !”
There, now, Harry, that is all right, I
think. Now, though I certainly have no
such fearful ideas of death, fearful as
death is, still l so far enter into the spirit
of the passage —“I know so much of this
beautiful world, and so very little of a
future state —that I could wish to live,
for your sake—just to be your own little
wife, Harry !” Then, with a quick in
clination of the head, she said, “Harry,
you are a philosopher—tell me, what is
death?' 1 ’
A death-like paleness overspread Har
ry’s face, but he did not speak.
“Ah ! it gives you pain, my dear Har
ry, to hear me talk in this way. Well,
we will change the subject—what is life?
Still Harry was silent, for “thick-crowd
ing fancies” were struggling in his brain.
“Now, Harry,” she continued, in a
lower, graver tone, “ever since 1 became
acquainted with you, I have lived in a
new world. Often, when you have been
explaining to me about the sun, and the
moon, and the stars, and all the wonder
ful things of this earth, have I longed to
be able to sail through the universe, to
examine every thing, to understand every
thing, to be able to comprehend some
thing of the marvellous works of God.
Then I have said to myself—what a poor
stupid thing you are ! you don’t know
any thing. Ob, I wish I were a man 1
Harry, why did God make us men and
women ?°
Harry replied, “Nay, my dear girl,
you will exhaust yourself, if you go on
at this rate. You want repose.”
“Well, I will take your advice. My
body is weak, but I feel as if my mind
was wonderfully active. Come to-mor
row Harry, for you have yet much to
teach me before 1 die!”
On his way homeward, a dark cloud
came over Harry’s mind. “What a won
derful creature,” he thought; “noble in
body, generous and confiding in disposi
tion, quick in intellect—a rare combina
tion in ordinary life ! And yet is all this
combination of moral and physical beau
ty—is this glorious girl about to drop
into the dust, and be as if she had never
been ?” If Harry had no other source
of comfort but his knowledge, he might
have dropped in despair. But he did, as
a good man of the olden time did, when
he also had a cloud over his mind, when
meditating on life and death —he “went
into the sanctuary of God light pierced
his darkness; he returned to Eliza next
day, with a lighter step and a cheerful
heart.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, “how I have
j been longing for you to return ! I want
you to answer my question : —Why did
God make us men and women'?”
“It was His pleasure, my dear, to do
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
so, just as he has made the earth a globe,
and surrounded it with an atmosphere.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that very well.
But what 1 want to know is what you
would call the rationale of the question.
I will put it another way. What sort of
world would this be, if we had all been
merely intellectual beings, without that
division by which we are men and wo
men *?”
“All I can fancy of it is, that, in this
case, human beings would have resembled
a forest of pine-trees—dull, dark, and
uniform.”
“Why, Harry, why 1 ? I want to know 7
the reason why ?”
“This division of the human race into
men and women may be termed the ka
leiodoscope of humanity. It is a com
paratively simple matter, and yet it pro
duces that apparently infinite variety
which diversifies human existence. The
relation of parent and child —the care of
the father—the love of the mother—the
affection of the child—the attachment of
brothers and sisters —family ties —social
interests —national concerns —all spring
from our being men and women.”
“Good, good—go on, Harry.”
“Then that universe of mind which
springs from the attachment of two such
as we are —human love, the theme of so
much thought and so much song —human
love, given by God to adorn and elevate
human existence, and w hich prevails in
its noblest purity and power, where man
is most advanced in principle and in civil
ization.”
“Now 7 , Harry, I begin to understand.
Let me try if 1 can express’ myself phi
losophically, as you would say. The di
vision of mankind into men and women
is a great means to a great end—is it
not ?”
“Exactly : the end being, the endowing
our humanity with moral sentiments —
with thought, feeling, hope, effort, love,
fear, forbearance, tenderness, &c.”
“But, Harry, there will be no men and
women in a future state of existence 1 ?”
“No, Eliza, our Lord has assured us of
that.”
“Well, then, if there be no parents
and children, no husbands and wives, no
men and women to love and be loved,
what state of existence will it be 1 ? There
will be no hope, love, fear, as you ex
press it; and what object can our divi
sion into men and women serve, when it
perishes with this world ]”
“Eliza, do you remember that passage
in the Gospel where the Sadducees, who
did not believe in a resurrection, came to
our Lord with what they thought a puz
zling question. They supposed a case,
where, according to the Mosaic law, a
woman had been married in succession to
seven brothers; and then they tauntingly
asked, whose wife she would be in the
resurrection ? What reply did our Lord
make V*
“I remember. lie said, ‘Do ye not
therefore err, because ye know not the
Scriptures, neither the power of God !
For when they shall rise from the dead,
they neither marry, nor are given in mar
riage, but are as the angels which are in
heaven.’ ”
“Mark the words, Eliza —‘the power of
God.’ The distinction of sex is the scaf
folding of our moral existence ; this life is
but the first stage of our being ; when
our characters are built up, the scaffold
ing will be taken away, and then we en
ter a nobler, a higher state.”
“But Harry, what I am afraid, of is,
that we will not know each other, or that
at least we will become quite indifferent
to each other.”
“Nay, Eliza, nay! I rest perfectly
satisfied that in a future state memory
will be like night, revealing in our consti
tution those innumerable things which the
light of the present life dims or conceals ;
that love, first created by our connection
with an animal existence, will, when dis
sociated from it, act with a power of
which we have no present idea ; and that
all the intellectual powers, expanding in
a body freed from mere animal qualities,
will make the human being a wonderful
creature —one of the glories ot God’s uni
verse !”
The vivid flashing of Eliza’s eyes show
ed to Harry that her mind was in a state
of peculiar excitement; he, therefore, re
tired, promising to return soon. During
his absence, a thought took possession of
the girl's fancy. “Oh,” said she to her
self, “if memory will be such a powerful
reflector in a fuiure state, how I should
live to remember that l hhvo been Har
ry’s wife in this world!” Then sud
denly blaming herself for being a mere
selfish creature, she prayed, while the
tears streamed from her eyes, that God
would give her affectionate lover a good
wife, after she was dead and gone.
But the idea became strong: the
thought of being Harry’s wife before she
departed overcame all idea of singularity
or of incongruity—she thought that if
she died without bearing the name of
“wife,” she would depart from this breath
ing, bustling, working world, without a
tie to link her memory even to the grave.
She mentioned the idea to her mother,
who could not comprehend her meaning,
and thought disease had affected her
brain. But when the mother mentioned
it to Harry, he at once caught and com
prehended the spirit of Eliza’s wish.
“Yes,” said he, as he walked into the
room, “yes, my own girl, you shall be
Harry’s wife before you die !”
One morning a coach drove up to a
church —Harry and Eliza, his sister and
her mother stepped out, and so elastic
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