Charles Honeyman improved the occasion at Lady Whittlesea's Chapel hard
by; and "Death at the Festival" was one of his most thrilling sermons;
reprinted at the request of some of the congregation. There were those of
his flock, especially a pair whose quarter of the fold was the
organ-loft, who were always charmed with the piping of that melodious
pastor.
Shall we too, while the coffin yet rests on the earth's outer surface,
enter the chapel whither these void remains of our dear sister departed
are borne by the smug undertaker's gentlemen, and pronounce an elegy over
that bedizened box of corruption? When the young are stricken down, and
their roses nipped in an hour by the destroying blight, even the stranger
can sympathise, who counts the scant years on the gravestone, or reads
the notice in the newspaper corner. The contrast forces itself on you. A
fair young creature, bright and blooming yesterday, distributing smiles,
levying homage, inspiring desire, conscious of her power to charm, and
gay with the natural enjoyment of her conquests--who in his walk through
the world has not looked on many such a one; and, at the notion of her
sudden call away from beauty, triumph, pleasure; her helpless outcries
during her short pain; her vain pleas for a little respite; her sentence,
and its execution; has not felt a shock of pity? When the days of a long
life come to its close, and a white head sinks to rise no more, we bow
our own with respect as the mourning train passes, and salute the
heraldry and devices of yonder pomp, as symbols of age, wisdom, deserved
respect and merited honour; long experience of suffering and action.
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