"There lay the miser, who only in death's agony loosened his hold of his golden god. The widow he has made houseless, and her shivering orphans, read the mocking falsehood on the splendid marble that covers him, and murmur in words that are God's own truth, 'It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.'
"With a saddened heart I turn to inhale the sweet breath of the flowers planted by the hand of affection, or strewn in garlands with falling tears over the loved and lost. Before me, shining in the moonlight, is a marble tablet; on it I read, '_Our little Meta_.' I advance toward it; suddenly I see a female figure approaching, looking so spiritual in the moonlight--with her snowy robe and shining hair--that I could almost fancy her an angel guarding the child's grave. She advanced toward it, and kneeling, presses her lips to the fragrant sod, saying in a voice of anguish,
"'Would to God I had died for thee, my child, my child!'
"A kind friend had followed Grace's footsteps. A rich, manly voice is borne upon the air. It shall fall like dew upon the stricken flower. Listen to the chant!
'There is a Reaper whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath; And the flowers that grow between.
'He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He raised their drooping leaves, It was for the _Lord of Paradise_ He bound them in his sheaves.
'Oh not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth And took those flowers away.'
"A holy calm has settled upon the face of the mourner. Noiselessly she retraces her steps, and as she glides away, I hear her murmur, in a voice of submission:
'Oh! _not_ in cruelty, _not_ in wrath The Reaper came that day, 'Twas an _angel_ visited the green earth And took _my flower_ away.'
"The splendid mansion of the physician had for its mistress the orphan governess. The world, with its sycophantic smile, now flatters, where it once frowned. Both are alike to Grace, who has given her warm heart, 'till death do us part,' to one who knows well how to prize the gift."
Fanny says herself, she "knows _all_ about him." Now who in the world so fit to deliver a discourse on the subject, as so intimate an acquaintance? Beside, we have seen already that Fanny is in the habit of writing about her friends. Satan _might_ think it a little unjust to be held responsible for babies and women's rights movements, but Fanny knows best, so here follows her sermon, text and all:--