It was now nearly five years that my father had trod the weary path of
invalidism, slowly weaning him from the familiar life and ties he loved
so [353] well. The master's interest was as large, as keen as ever;
friendship, patriotism, religion, were even dearer to him than when he
was strong to work in their service; but the ready servants that had
so long stood by him,--the ear, always open to each new word of hope
and promise for humanity; the eye, that looked with eager pleasure on
every noble work of man and on every natural object, seeing in all,
manifestations of the Divine Goodness and Wisdom; the feet, that had
carried him so often on errands of kindness; the hands, whose clasp
had cheered many a sad heart, and whose hold upon the pen had sent
strong and stirring words through the land,-these gradually resigned
their functions, and the active but tired brain, which had held on so
bravely, notwithstanding the injury it had received in early life,
began to share in the general decline of the vital powers. There was no
disease, no deflection of aim nor confusion of thought, but a gentle
failure of faculties used up by near a century's wear and tear.
He was somewhat grieved and harassed by the spiritual problems which
were always the chief occupation of his mind, and which he now
perceived, without being able to grapple with them; and life, with such
mental and physical limitations, became very weary to him. But his
constitution was so sound, and his health so perfect, that he might
have lingered yet a long time, but for his grief and disappointment in
the unexpected death [354] of Dr. Bellows, Jan. 30, 1882. When that
beloved friend, upon whose inspiring ministrations he had counted to
soothe his own last hours, was called first, the shock perceptibly
loosened his feeble hold on life; and truly it seemed as if the
departing spirit did his last service of love by helping to set free
the elder friend whom he could no longer comfort on earth. He "Allured
to brighter worlds, and led the way;" nor was my father long in
following him. For a few weeks there was little outward change in his
habits; he ate as usual the few morsels we could induce him to taste;
he slept several hours every night, and, supported by faithful arms,
he came to the table for each meal till within four days of his death.
But he grew visibly weaker, and would sit long silent, his head bent
on his breast. We gathered together in those sad days, and read aloud
the precious series of Dr. Bellows's letters to us all, but principally
to him,-letters radiant with beauty, vigor, wit, and affection; we
read them with thankfulness and with sorrow, with laughter and with
tears, and he joined in it all, but grew too weary to listen, and never
heard the whole. He was confined to his bed but three days. A slight
indigestion, which yielded to remedies, left him too weak to rally. He
was delirious most of the time when awake, and was soothed by anodynes;
but though he knew us all, he was too sick and restless for talk,
trying [355] sometimes to smile in answer to his wife's caresses, but
hardly noticing anything. At one o'clock in the morning of March 21st,
his sad moans suddenly ceased, and he opened his sunken eyes wide,--so
wide that even in the dim light we saw their clear blue,--looked
forward for a moment with an earnest gaze, as if seeing something afar
off, then closed them, and with one or two quiet breaths left pain and
suffering behind, and entered into life.
For a few days his body lay at rest in his pleasant study, surrounded
by the flowers he loved, and the place was a sweet domestic shrine. A
grand serenity had returned to the brow, and all the features wore a
look of peace and happiness unspeakably beautiful and comforting. Then,
with a quiet attendance of friends and neighbors, it was borne to the
grave in the shadow of his native hills.
In those last weeks he wrote still a few letters, almost illegible, and
written a few lines at a time, as his strength permitted.
To Rev. John W. Chadwick.
SHEFFIELD, Feb. 2, 1882.