Uncle Tom's Cabin HTML version
"This Is the Last of Earth"
 "This is the last of Earth! I am content," last words of John Quincy Adams, uttered
February 21, 1848.
The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded in white napkins, and only
hushed breathings and muffled footfalls were heard there, and the light stole in solemnly
through windows partially darkened by closed blinds.
The bed was draped in white; and there, beneath the drooping angel-figure, lay a little
sleeping form,--sleeping never to waken!
There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she had been wont to wear when
living; the rose-colored light through the curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a
warm glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure cheek; the head was turned a
little to one side, as if in natural steep, but there was diffused over every lineament of the
face that high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, which showed it
was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the long, sacred rest which "He giveth to his
There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva! neither darkness nor shadow of death; only
such a bright fading as when the morning star fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the
victory without the battle,--the crown without the conflict.
So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there gazing. Ah! who shall say
what he did think? for, from the hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, "she is
gone," it had been all a dreary mist, a heavy "dimness of anguish." He had heard voices
around him; he had had questions asked, and answered them; they had asked him when
he would have the funeral, and where they should lay her; and he had answered,
impatiently, that he cared not.
Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber; volatile, fickle and childish, as they
generally were, they were soft-hearted and full of feeling; and, while Miss Ophelia
presided over the general details of order and neatness, it was their hands that added those
soft, poetic touches to the arrangements, that took from the death-room the grim and
ghastly air which too often marks a New England funeral.
There were still flowers on the shelves,--all white, delicate and fragrant, with graceful,
drooping leaves. Eva's little table, covered with white, bore on it her favorite vase, with a
single white moss rose-bud in it. The folds of the drapery, the fall of the curtains, had
been arranged and rearranged, by Adolph and Rosa, with that nicety of eye which
characterizes their race. Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinking, little Rosa
tripped softly into the chamber with a basket of white flowers. She stepped back when
she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully; but, seeing that he did not observe her, she
came forward to place them around the dead. St. Clare saw her as in a dream, while she