MY FATHER’S LAST HOURS.
It was late at night when I reached Glasgow, and I travelled on to my father’s house, my mind filled with a fearful anxiety that he was not in life, and I knocked at the door with a palpitating heart—a light beamed across the hall window—I heard a low moan—another—then my mother’s voice inquiring, ‘Who is there?’
‘It is me,’ replied I.
The door opened—‘Thank God,’ said she, ‘that you have arrived, for your poor father has been anxiously expecting you, and was beginning to despair of seeing you before his eyes were closed for ever.’
‘Is he so ill? Oh! let me see him.’
A hectic flush tinged her pale cheek, while she motioned me to be silent, and leading me into another room—‘My child,’ said she, ‘you may prepare yourself for the worst, for little hope remains of his recovery. He has been confined to bed—no, not to bed, for the nature of his malady will not allow him to lie; but he has sat in his arm-chair, with his head resting on a pillow before him, for three weary months—no interval of rest—no cessation of pain; but he is calm and resigned, no murmur passes his lips, and his only wish is, that he may be permitted to see his child and die. He is now so weak that I think it would be imprudent for you to see him, without preparing him for the meeting.’ But her precautions were unavailing—he had heard my voice when I entered, and he now called upon her. The next minute I was at his side, bedewing his hand with my tears—he attempted to speak, but his voice was choked in the utterance. I looked up in his face, the hue of death was upon it—he gasped for breath, and fell back in his chair. The agony I felt at that moment was indescribable, for I thought he was dead. My mother having used the necessary means for his recovery, a long low moan succeeded her endeavours; he slowly unclosed his eyes, and she motioned me to leave the room. When I next saw him, he was prepared for the meeting; a flush of joy animated his wasted features while he said, ‘My dear boy, I begged that I might see you once more before I closed my eyes in death. That prayer has been granted: I can now say, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”’
‘And can you forgive all my folly and ingratitude—forget all the distress I have occasioned you?’
‘Forgive you? oh, yes! you little know a parent’s feelings. But there is One whom you have offended, whose pardon I hope you desire and ask—One who delights to forgive—ah! cling to Him, my child, He will never forsake you. I will soon have crossed “that bourne from whence no traveller returns.” In a short time you will have no father; but it would smooth my passage to the tomb, to think that you felt inclined to throw yourself into the hands of the living God, and beg his assistance to curb that unstable spirit, which has caused you and us so much misery; and that we shall yet meet, no wanderer lost, a family in heaven—there is joy in the thought.’
I felt my heart softened more than it had been in all my misery; surely adversity is no tamer of the human heart—at least, I never felt it so. I am of opinion that it is calculated rather to draw forth the darker passions of our nature, and shut up all the holy avenues of the soul. I wished to sit up with my father that night, but my mother urged me to retire to rest. I did so, but I could not sleep; I lay ruminating on my past life, and on my father’s situation, my mind stung with remorse. I had learned that his distress of mind, when I first went abroad, had been great, and that insensibly his health had sunk, and that his disorder (which proved eventually to be a cancer of the stomach) had been lingering on him for some years—I therefore could not but consider that I had contributed to the state he was now in.
He grew rapidly worse; he was never satisfied when I was out of his presence, and I generally sat up with him at night. His malady caused him the most excruciating pain, but he bore it with the greatest patience and fortitude. He had always been remarkable for his piety, but it was that unostentatious kind of it which shows itself more in actions than words: the world was receding from his view, but he did not feel or feign those ecstasies which we often have described in the obituary of religious people; his was an humble confidence, alike removed from despondency and presumption. It was remarkable that this gave offence to some of his more enthusiastic brethren. One, in particular, having called upon him, seemed to feel disappointed that he was relating no heavenly raptures or beatific visions, and very anxiously endeavoured to draw him into some confession of this kind.