rn; they sought
leave to seek him, and to recover him: "Peradventure," they said, "the
Spirit of the Lord hath taken him up and cast him upon some mountain, or
into some valley." Elisha peremptorily refused to grant them leave. They
were importunate; and when, at last, it would, perhaps, seem like
obstinacy in him, or like jealousy of their superior love for Elijah, to
forbid the search, which at the worst would only be fruitless, he
yielded. Three days they explored the valleys, ransacked the thickets,
groped in the caves, traversed hills, followed imaginary trails and
footprints, but found him not. When they came again to Elisha, "he said
unto them, Did I not say unto you, Go not?"

We cannot become accustomed at once, nor for a long time, to the absence
of our friend. If his death was sudden, or if it took place away from
home, or during our absence, we expect to see him again; if a vehicle
stops at the door, the heart beats with an instantaneous hope which dies
with its first breath, bringing over us a deeper and stronger refluence
of sorrow. We catch a sight of articles familiarly used by a departed
friend; they are identified with little passages in his history, or with
his daily life: is it possible that he is altogether and forever
disconnected from them? They are the same; those perishable things,
those comparatively worthless things, having no value at all except as
his use of them made them precious, retain their shapes and places; but
where is he? and must not he return and abide, like them?

No, he is gone to heaven. The places which knew him shall know him no
more forever. Those things, which have an imperishable value in being
associated with his memory, are, to him, like the leaves of a past
autumn to a tree now filled with blossoms. The mention of every valued
possession once indescribably dear to him, would awaken but slight
emotions; even the recent history of the dwelling which he built and
furnished, would be no more to him than the rehearsal to a grown person
of that which had happened to a block house, or card figure, which
amused his childhood. We walk and sit in the places identified with our
last remembrances of the departed; but he is not there; we hallow the
anniversaries of his birth and death; but he gives us no recognition; we
read his letters; they make him seem alive; his voice, his smile, his
love are there; and when we have finished, nature, exhausted with its
weeping, sighs, "And whe