and his death was as a
saints's: as for her, rich rewarded daughter at the last, one word of
warm acknowledgement, one look of true affection, one tear of deep
contrition, would have been superabundant to clear away all the many
clouds, the many storms of her past home-life: and as for our Maker,
with his pure and spotless justice, faith in the sacrifice had passed
all sin to him, and love of the Redeemer had proved that faith the true
one. How should a daughter mourn for such a soul? With tears of joy;
with sighs--of kindred hopefulness; with happiest resolve to live as he
had died; with instant prayer that her last end be like his.

There is a plain tablet in St. Benet's church, just within the
altar-rail, bearing--no inscription about Lord Mayoralty, Knighthood, or
the Worshipful Company of Stationers--but full of facts more glorious
than every honour under heaven; for the words run thus:

SORROWFUL, YET REJOICING,
A DAUGHTER'S LOVE HAS PLACED THIS TABLET
TO THE MEMORY OF
T H O M A S D I L L A W A Y;
A MAN WHO DIED IN THE FAITH OF CHRIST,
IN THE LOVE OF GOD, AND IN THE HOPE OF HEAVEN.

Noble epitaph! Let us so live, that the like of this may be truth on our
tomb-stones. Seek it, rather than wealth, before honour, instead of
pleasure; for, indeed, those words involve within their vast
significancy riches unsearchable, glory indestructible, and pleasure for
evermore! Hide them, as a string of precious pearls, within the casket
of your hearts.

I had almost forgotten, though Maria never could, another neighbouring
tablet to record the peaceful exit of her mother; however, as this had
been erected by Sir Thomas in his life-time, and was plastered thick
with civic glories and heathen virtues, possibly the transcript may be
spared: there was only one sentence that looked true about the epitaph,
though I wished it had been so in every sense; but, to common eyes, it
had seemed quite suitable to the physical quietude of living Lady
Dillaway, to say, "Her end was peace;" although, perhaps, the husband
little thought how sore that mother's heart was for dear Maria's loss,
how full of anxious doubts her mind about Maria's sin. Poor soul,
however peaceful now that spirit has read the truth, in the hour of her
departure it had been with her far otherwise: her dying bed was as a
troubled sea, for she died of a broken heart.