Page:Francesca Carrara 2.pdf/100

Rh It is a singular sensation the first time that we see the portrait of a friend after death. There is something of mockery in the very pleasure that it brings. The face, which we know to be mouldering in the dust, looks upon us, fresh with hues of health; there are the jewels, and the robe round the graceful form, now decaying in its shroud. Why should the work of man's hand outlast that of his Maker's?—why should we have the semblance of life, whose breathing reality is no more? We are not half thankful enough for the forgetfulness inherent even in our affections: did the first agony continue in all its keenness, who could endure to live?

But the emotion exhausts itself—the presence of our grief grows fainter; other thoughts force themselves upon the mind—other hopes involuntarily arise; and grief is forgotten rather than consoled. But the memory remains, though in a darkened cell of the heart; though no longer a perpetual shadow, the dead are fondly and mournfully recalled. Then how dear is any token of their former existence! The coloured ivory which bears their features is more precious than fine gold; and we take comfort in the calm and fixed smile which is now the semblance under which the beloved face rises upon the mind.