The Autobiography of Lieutenant-General Sir Harry Smith, Baronet of Aliwal on the Sutlej, G.C.B.

by Sir Harry George Wakelyn Smith

Eleanor Moore Smith.

Addressed—

Lieut.-Colonel Smith,
Rifle Brigade,
Glasgow,
Scotland.

[See Appendix VIII., [p. 794.]]

Letter IX. Endorsed—“2^{nd} Sep^r, reporting the death of my poor and venerable Father, 2^nd Sep. 1843, ¼ before five o’clock in the Morning; rec^d at Cawnpore 31^st Oct^br, 1843.—H. G. S.”

Whittlesea, Sep^r 2, 1843.

My dearest Harry,

... Our beloved father breathed his last this morning at ¼ before 5 o’clock....

About three weeks ago Charles perceived an evident alteration in his appearance. He became ill in health that week, and on Wednesday, Aug^st 16^th, he took to his bed. His poor mind was in a most distressed state and his terrors extreme. Unable to bear the suspense, Anna Maria and myself set off for Whittlesea, Saturday, Aug^st 19^th. Eleanor had come to Charles’s from Northampton a few days before, and on the Monday morning as we got to W. on the Sunday Tom arrived. We found our poor father very ill, but certainly not like immediate dissolution, tho’ his state was very precarious. We tried to rouse him to recollection and to soothe him, and oh, blessed be the Almighty for the mercy, we so far succeeded as to be convinced that we restored him to happiness and peace. Tho’ not able to retain recollection of us for many minutes together, he was ever conscious that his children were about him; he blessed us, recognized us, asked us to pray for him, to repeat the Lord’s Prayer, and one day he told us he had hope, that God was a God of mercy. He never uttered indeed two connected sentences, and he rambled incessantly, but the character of his ramblings was altered—bits of hymns, parts of the Psalms, exclamations to the Deity took the place of cries of terror, etc. He was happy—our voices reached him and soothed him, and he would reward us with a word or a look of love. He would lie in bed and amuse himself with fancied dressings of himself, talk of driving, etc., entreat to get out of bed, and would sit a few minutes in his chair. On this day week we got him out of bed, when his happiness was beautiful, but oh, the heartrending appearance he made! He was literally a skeleton; he had not an ounce of flesh on his whole body, he was a breathing death. He knew us all, smiled on each (the four daughters and Charles), dressed himself in imagination for a walk and a drive, tied his handkerchief on his neck, and when he had fidgetted away the blanket in which he was wrapt, and I put a light chair cushion in his lap, saying, “It is cold, we must pull up the apron of the gig,” he smiled and said, “What fun it is!” After a little while he asked to go home; we laid him in bed and thought he was dying. It was, however, but exhaustion, and he rallied again, but he was never more so rational as this.

Oh, Harry, all my desire now was to gain something for you. I tried him, asked him if he recollected you, spoke the name “Harry” in a marked manner, and oh, Harry, you will thank me for this—at length he said, “Harry, yes, God bless him.” I had touched the string. Some time after he addressed a set speech (made of broken sentences) to Col. Smith, in which he said he “thanked”—“noble deeds”—“to be praised”—and much more that could not be gathered; but this was enough, his darling son was not forgotten. He spoke much of William, always saying, “William, I am coming,” and once he said, “Stop, Stona—I’ll go with you.” He took decided notice of Anna Maria, but he held all our hands as we sat by him, and would stroke them and take them to his cheek, and even to his lips and kiss them. When he awoke in tears and we spoke to him, it vanished and he became calm; and even when we prayed by his side, if we told him not to interrupt us, he would become quiet, seem to catch some sentences, become soothed and fall asleep. The last three days he became very ill and the pains of death racked him greatly, and it was very sad to see his sufferings. He was dying all yesterday and all the night, and oh, what an awful night we passed by his bedside! He appeared to suffer a good deal from convulsive affection of the muscles, but the strength of his constitution was really wonderful. It was a hard struggle indeed for the victory. After many hours’ most laboured breathing, he became gradually lower and lower, and at length with one sigh, one struggle, one effort, he breathed his last at ¼ before 5 o’clock this morning, Sept. 2^nd, having reached the great age of 87. We mean to lay him beside our beloved mother on Wednesday afternoon....