Ah! now again all my sensations move to see a parent, and I sigh
once more to meet the kind caresses of a father--and weeks seem ages
in this separation.
The feelings of Alida were those of boundless joy to meet again her
parents, after an absence from them which appeared long to her.
[The Merchant's Daughter:
Her first feelings were those of boundless joy....]
She was grieved to find her father had suffered much from indisposition
during her absence. She endeavoured in vain, by every soothing
attention, to recall him again to health and happiness. His malady
increased daily, and he became a prey to infirmities, which at length
confined him to his room.
[_Children of the Abbey_:
Lord Dunreath had long been a prey to infirmities, which at this
period generally confined him to his room....]
The gladsome sensations of Albert were changed soon to those of
melancholy, when he saw that his father was affected with a serious
illness, and dejection supplied the place of more happy and animated
feelings.
Alida, for several weeks, scarce left the apartment. One morning she
perceived that he had altered very materially for the worse. It was only
at intervals he could converse with her, and then his conversation was
calculated to give her fortitude and resignation, and prepare her mind
for an approaching melancholy event, which, whenever she received the
least hint of, her grief was inexpressible.
[_Children of the Abbey_:
Her father was considerably altered for the worse, and unable to
rise, except for a few minutes in the evening, to have his bed made.
He complained of no pain or sickness, but seemed sinking beneath an
easy and gradual decay. It was only at intervals he could converse
with his daughter. His conversation was then calculated to
strengthen her fortitude and resignation, and prepare her for an
approaching melancholy event. Whenever she received a hint of it,
her agony was inexpressible....]
Her father observed her emotion. "Alida, my dear child," said he, "do
not be alarmed, as I appear much worse than I am in reality at present;"
but she had drawn these words from the physician that morning, that his
malady had increased greatly since the day before. Perceiving a visible
change in his appearance, she scarcely left the room of her father till
a late hour, when he, perceiving her almost fainting with fatigue,
requested her to retire to rest. Albert supplied the place of his
sister, and remained with his father, while the affectionate care of his
only surviving son was grateful to the bosom of a fond parent.
[_Children of the Abbey_:
her father who saw her ill, and almost sinking with fatigue,
requested her to retire to rest....]
The slumbers of Alida were broken, and fearing to leave her father too
long, she arose very early next morning to attend him. He was evidently
much worse next day, which was Sunday, and intimated that he wished all
the family sent for. He then requested Alida to read some passages in
the bible, as was his daily custom.
"'Leave thy fatherless children to me and I will be their father,' what
words of consolation are these," said he, "what transport do they convey
to the heart of a parent, burthened with anxiety. Yes, divine Disposer,"
he exclaimed, "I will, with grateful joy, commit my children to thy kind
care and protection."
[_Children of the Abbey_:
It was now Sunday, and he desired the service of the day to be read.
A small bible lay on the table before him, and Amanda complied with
his desire. In the first lesson were these words: "Leave thy
fatherless children to me, and I will be their father." The tears
gushed from Fitzalan; he laid his hand, which appeared convulsed
with agitation, on the book. "Oh! what words of comfort," cried he,
"are these; what transport do they convey to the heart of a parent
burthened with anxiety! Yes, merciful Power I will, with grateful
joy, commit my children to thy care, for thou art the friend who
wilt never forsake them."]
When the physician made his morning visit, as he was going to take
leave, Alida asked his opinion. He shook his head, and seemed to give no
hopes of recovery.
Her father requested her to be seated by the bedside. "My child," said
he, "I wish to discourse a little with you. And could I again see
Theodore, how gladly would I now receive him. I have deeply injured
him," said he, "and my child too; and have inflicted a wound still
deeper in my own bosom. I have often considered his piety and worth. His
moral character was all that it should be. Superfluous wealth is not
necessary to ensure earthly felicity, but a competency and contentment
therewith, is all that is necessary to happiness."
[_A&M_ (Melissa's father to Alonzo):
"I have injured (said he) my young friend, deeply injured you, but
in doing this I have inflicted a wound still deeper in my own
bosom."]
"Do not renew your sorrows, dear father," said Alida, "what is past is
beyond recall. Let us confide in a just over-ruling Providence, that
disposes all material events for the wisest purposes." Her tears flowed
in abundance, as her looks rested upon the visage of her father, and
deep distress was depicted in her countenance.
[_Lives of Signers_: Samuel Adams of Massachusetts:
He had been accustomed for years, to confide in a just over-ruling
Providence....]
"My dear child," said her father, "weep not for me, think that rest must
now be acceptable to the weary traveller, whose hopes are centred in the
Redeemer, (as the only name under Heaven, whereby we can be saved,) and
can leave the world in the joyful anticipation of receiving those
inestimable blessings, in a life to come, which the Gospel promises to
every true believer."
[_Children of the Abbey_:
my Amanda, weep not too bitterly for me; like a weary traveller,
think that rest must now be acceptable to me.]
He had scarcely uttered these words, when he sunk almost senseless upon
his pillow. The greater part of the family now assembled round him. The
physician came and gave no hopes of recovery. He faithfully watched over
him the whole evening and a part of the night, and about twelve o'clock
his family had the sorrow and misfortune to witness the distressful and
trying scene. Their father was no more.
The distress, fatigue and agitation of Alida, could no longer be borne
with, and for many weeks she was confined to her room. The loss of her
parent and the terminating scene, had left her in deep affliction: all
repose seemed fled forever, and bitter anguish had succeeded, and taken
up its residence in her bosom. Reflections rose in her mind continually,
that her situation had been heretofore comparatively happy, to what it
at present afforded. An illness of short duration had suddenly deprived
her of a very dear father, and she now felt herself a lonely, dejected
orphan.