Although, among his manuscripts, he has left some vague hints of his intentions in regard to the unwritten volumes, they are such as none but himself could fully understand, and no other hand could venture to finish what he had commenced; therefore, the fragment of “Jerry,” which is published in this volume, must forever remain the last of the “Aimwell Stories.”
“Jerry” was commenced on the twenty-eighth day of November, 1858, and its last lines were written on the twenty-second of January, 1859. In view of his increasing infirmity, he resolved that if he were not otherwise able to finish “Jerry” in season for publication in 1859, he would resign his place in the “New England Farmer” office on the first of July. At the close of the first week in July, he had resigned everything that earth could give.
CHAPTER XII.
THE END.
Slowly but steadily the forces of life yielded before the results of the great efforts he made in those fearful years preceding the sale of the “Rambler.” It hardly seemed as though he were subject to any common disease, but he appeared to be dying for the reason that men of threescore-and-ten years die,—because he had done enough living, and because, happy as this life may become to a good man, he was prepared for enjoying a still happier one. And God did not long keep him from the heritage of saints.
Through the month of January, 1859, he was very comfortable, and accomplished considerable literary labor. Probably it was during this month that he wrote the last twenty pages of “Jerry.”
When February came, fierce storms came also; and often Walter Aimwell was unable to go out for a day or two. Soon his visits to the office in Boston became very irregular; sometimes there were intervals between them of ten days, sometimes of three weeks. For more than a fortnight, he could not take a little ride about his own home. By and by, he cannot, for several days, even go out upon the piazza. Then, he leaves off going down-stairs, because it is “so tiresome to come up again.” To accommodate his swollen limbs, he lies abed all day. Occasionally comes a day when he feels better; and if it is a pleasant day, and if some one of his kind neighbors is at home to assist him in getting into his carriage, he goes to ride. He procures some assistance in his editorial duties. At last he resolves to do nothing for the paper more than to attend to the fourth page. He ceases to record any labor accomplished, but, instead, mentions the reception of a woodcock, a pair of robins, a basket of grapes and flowers, a box of wild strawberries, or some other token of the respect and sympathy of kind neighbors and friends. This change in the record is significant.
Evidently, he is passing away; but he observes the changes in his condition with the same unruffled tranquillity with which he watched the crimsoning of the leaves in the fall. He will soon leave pleasant employments and dear friends. If it were the will of God that he should stay, he would be pleased; yet he is wholly willing to go.
He is not going to die, to cease to exist; he has no fear of that. Happy in his glorious faith, he waits to see what his good God is going to do with him. Long ago he placed his hand in God’s; it is there now, as he is going down into the valley. He feels no fear, no agitation. He accepts the pleasantness of the day, the kindness of his friends. He welcomes the joys, and does the duties, of the hour.
The sixth of July is too cold for him to take a ride; but on the seventh, friends help him into his carriage, and that devoted one, who is ever his companion, takes the reins, and once more they pass through the scenes they have so often gazed upon together. It is the last time.