Andrew Comin staid yet a week--slowly, gently fading out into
life--darkening into eternal day--forgetting into knowledge itself.
Donal was by his side when he went, but little was done or said; he
crept into the open air in his sleep, to wake from the dreams of
life and the dreams of death and the dreams of sleep all at once,
and see them mingling together behind him like a broken
wave--blending into one vanishing dream of a troubled, yet, oh, how
precious night past and gone!
Once, about an hour before he went, Donal heard him murmur, "When I
wake I am still with thee!"
Doory was perfectly calm. When he gave his last sigh, she sighed
too, said, "I winna be lang, Anerew!" and said no more. Eppy wept
bitterly.
Donal went every day to see them till the funeral was over. It was
surprising how many of the town's folk attended it. Most of them had
regarded the cobbler as a poor talkative enthusiast with far more
tongue than brains! Because they were so far behind and beneath him,
they saw him very small!
One cannot help reflecting what an indifferent trifle the funeral,
whether plain to bareness, as in Scotland, or lovely with meaning as
often in England, is to the spirit who has but dropt his hurting
shoes on the weary road, dropt all the dust and heat, dropt the road
itself, yea the world of his pilgrimage--which never was, never
could be, never was meant to be his country, only the place of his
sojourning--in which the stateliest house of marble can be but a
tent--cannot be a house, yet less a home.
Pages:
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407