Obituary

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OBITUARY.—

We were never more struck with the truth of the oft-quoted aphorism—“Death loves a shining mark,”¹ than in reading, in our yesterday’s edition, the simple announcement of the demise, at the residence of her father, in this district, of CHRISTINA, eldest daughter of Prof. Metcalfe. A young lady of rare talents that made her the centre of a large circle of the refined and intelligent, she was distinguished by a modesty so unaffected, an amiability so sweet and touching as to win, as it were by necessity, the kindly regards and the earnest admiration of all with whom she came in contact. Not one who had enjoyed the rare pleasure and privilege of even a passing acquaintance with her, who will not now feel, now that she is gone, a pang of regret that a life so beautiful should have proved so brief.

Miss Metcalfe’s literary attainments were very considerable. She had been for several years, from early girlhood, indeed, a contributor to some of the principal magazines of the day, including “Harpers”² and the “Knickerbocker.”³ Those publications devoted especially to woman, also received from her pen an efficient support. Her contributions from time to time to the Christian Intelligencer and journals of that standing, attested at once the facile grace of her pen and the depth and genuineness of her religious convictions.

Miss M. was the author of several volumes for children, of which we cannot, at the present writing, specify the titles. We believe she has also left a volume in manuscript, of a more pretentious character, which, it is possible, may yet be given to the public.

All her writings were marked by a singular delicacy and purity of sentiment, a sparkling but lambent wit, and a vein of the truest pathos. She was born to write—it was her vocation, her mission. Hers were no labored sentences. All was an easy, liquid flow, serene and limpid and reflecting everywhere the guilelessness of a heart that thought no evil, and the loveliness of a soul that seemed from the first to claim kindred with an existence higher and holier than anything which the rude world can afford to its fragile step-children.

The same fatal disease which has carried off so many of the children of genius—that scourge against which the strongest breastwork of care and affection avails nothing—was the immediate cause of Miss Metcalfe’s death. We need not name it. There is scarce a household throughout the land that has not suffered from its dread visitations.

We hoped to see this sad event commemorated by other and more competent hands. But we could not allow the occasion to pass without some slight record, on our own part, of the death of one who in her life-time was admired, honored and loved by so large a circle of our most esteemed residents. Thus much we may say, but there is a province upon which we must not trespass. Over it has dropped the sacred veil of private grief, and it is baptized by the tears of bereaved parents, brothers, sisters. We feel that this is not the appropriate place to touch upon such a theme. The only earthly comforters are Time and Resignation. As to the Heavenly ministerings, we can only preserve a reverent silence.

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