LAST JOURNEY AND DEATH.
It will be remembered that Dr. Elmslie brought on a rather serious
illness in Edinburgh, by too close application to his desk, when
preparing his vocabulary. He had not _fully_ recovered his wonted energy
when he left this country for Kashmir; but, as he had been steadily
improving, it was confidently believed that the sea voyage would
completely re-establish his health. On meeting him in India, Mr. Clark
noticed that his step was not so elastic as formerly; and, on his way to
Srinagar, Mrs. Elmslie remarked, especially at Murree, that Dr. E. was
breathless and weak. It has already appeared from the narrative that
during the whole season he was not at all strong. His work was
overwhelming truly, and to his own many duties were added the labours
and anxieties connected with an outbreak of cholera. He was saddened too
by the heartlessness and tyranny of those in power, and by the slanders
of the Baboos, to whom his life was a daily rebuke. At the close of the
season he was quite prostrate, and instead of entering on a journey
fitted to try even the robust, he needed rest and nursing. But he was
obliged to leave. The detailed account of the sad journey written by
Mrs. E. is before us. We trust we may be guided in making such a
selection as shall satisfy his many loving friends, without unduly
obtruding on the sanctity of these sacred letters. Before starting, Dr.
E. got a chill while waiting in a cold day in the fireless, windowless
chamber of a native gentleman. Next day he had to walk in the rain a
long way to see a dying man. This, also, was hurtful to him. The day
after they were cheered by the arrival of home letters. The account of
the Perth Conference by Miss –– was particularly interesting. "I said to
him," writes Mrs. E., "that much of the experience mentioned–the love
for Jesus and joy in Him–was far beyond what I knew. He drew me near to
him, and said, Why mourn! Let us ask and receive that our joy may be
full, and he forthwith poured out his heart in prayer to God." On
Sunday, they took their last walk in Srinagar, but Dr. Elmslie, on
reaching home, was so exhausted he needed a little brandy. In the
evening at worship, contrary to custom, he chose the hymns, selecting,
"One is kind above all others," and spoke afterwards very earnestly to
the Pundits and Moonshees present. On Monday, Mrs. E. suggested that he
should delay his journey, but he longed to be off, saying he would be
better when fairly on the way. As they sailed down the river, crowds of
people ran along the banks to pour out their thanks and say farewell.
Leaving Islamabad on the 25th, Dr. E. said, cheerily, "I'm glad to tell
you the liver is in better order to-day;" but the journey was fatiguing,
and he consented to take the dandy by turns with Mrs. E., and so they
reached Mohumpoora. "Next day we went together to see Carrie (the wife
of one of his assistants) and her newly-born infant, lying in a shed. So
like the accounts of the babe at Bethlehem it seemed that we were both
struck by it, and went away speaking of Jesus in that low estate,–being
rich, yet for our sakes becoming poor. He insisted on my using the
dandy, but after a little I got out, and sent it back for him. He said,
on our meeting again, 'I could not have walked another step.' The dandy
men always trot, so that it was to my great distress impossible to keep
beside him. On reaching Shupeyon, I found him lying on the bed in the
wretched bungalow, and he asked me to get a poultice at once." Various
remedies were applied, and he felt much relieved, and wished the epistle
to the Philippians read to him. "We read, too, Mrs. Gordon's book on
_Work_. He was much interested in it, and then came the last chapter on
'For Ever.' He spoke about heaven; about the joy of eternity being in
knowing Jesus and being with Him,–of his confidence that the
emancipated, glorified spirit should still have work to do." The night
following the breathing was greatly oppressed and the palpitation of the
heart very distressing. "That was my first warning," writes Mrs. E.; "an
awful night, but he assured me still the liver was the member at fault."
After the use of appropriate remedies, he got relief, and slept
comparatively well; and next day was again on the march. "Every march is
sixteen miles, and all are more or less dangerous and difficult. Indeed,
no one who has not crossed the Pir Panjal can have any idea of the awful
precipices one has to climb, the roads being mere cuttings, hardly broad
enough to walk upon, along the sides of mountains rising sheer up to the
height of 12,000 feet. Our next resting-place was Haripur. There he was
tired, but not breathless. Next day the march was nearly twenty miles
up–up to the snows and ice. We started at eight, and did not reach the
old bungalow near the height of the pass till nearly six o'clock. My
darling was very vexed about my walking all the way, but I hardly felt
tired, so eagerly anxious I was about him,–the air, too, was bracing,
and I had slept well. There we had a room, where was a good fireplace,
and we kept up a glowing fire of logs. He was very breathless again, and
complained much of pain in the back." Suitable remedies were
administered, and Mrs. E. sat up all night watching him and looking
after the fire. He awoke better, and said it was only natural he should
suffer from the great rarity of the air at such a height (11,900 feet).
"We went on next day over the snows. He never walked now. Many, many a
time, as I turned a corner, and saw the bearers carrying him over the
brink of such awful abysses, my heart stood still with horror, and I
could only cry to God to strengthen them. Once a man slipped his foot,
but mercifully the path was just at that place a little wider. However,
it distressed us both very much, for my darling was in a terribly
nervous state, and such a perilous mode of travelling, over places where
the missing of a foot must have caused death, was a great, great trial.
Sixteen miles brought us to Poohiana, and there William insisted on the
bearers keeping a slow pace in case of losing sight of me, as there were
many tracks of bears, and one large black one was quite near us. At
Poohiana the bungalow was a mere stable, without windows or opening of
any kind except the door. He wakened breathless; four pillows were not
high enough, and he lay on my shoulder and slept again. He suffered more
or less from diarrhœa all the way, and next day was very weak. We
reached Baramula on the first November, and proposed resting over
Saturday and Sabbath. That was my second night of preparation. I laid my
hand on his heart, the beating of which, in irregular thumps, seemed for
a few minutes to be heard all through the tent. Those were dreary
nights, and in the tent we felt it cold and windy. I fastened plaids and
travelling rugs all round to keep out the wind. The servants were tired,
and slept sound. Next day we came to Rajaori. He suffered from
rheumatism very much, but sent back the dandy for me several times, and
tried to walk, for I was very tired." Here there was a dilapidated
palace, the only habitable room in which had neither door nor window,
but two great openings, and it was agreed to try the tents. A thunder
storm drove them from the tent to seek shelter in the building; a large
straw-door was made, and the wax-cloth covering of the bedding was
placed over the window. He slept pretty well, but next day never offered
to rise. Mrs. E. read to him chapter after chapter of the Gospels. He
always said, "Read some of Jesus' words–His own words."
Mrs. E. remarked that God must have some great purpose in trying them so
much. "Yes," he replied; "I know what He means to teach me. I have sore
need of patience." Mrs. E. said how gladly she would suffer for him, but
he looked at her with a strange wistful gaze, and said, "Ah, but you
can't be my Simon, the Cyrenian. I must bear my own cross." Only eight
days' journey further, and then the crown.
One of the little beds was moved into the verandah of the old bungalow,
and there he lay for some hours on Sabbath the 9th November. When Mrs.
E. was reading aloud to him, he interrupted her, "Ah, darling, how
little we remember that we have only one life! Surely we should use them
very differently if we thought of that more–_one life here_–so much to
be done, and so little accomplished." He found it an easy position to
kneel and lean forward, and he would remain a long time in that
position. But again they must move on. The dandy, with pillows, could be
made pretty comfortable, and he seemed easier when moving. They held
straight for Goojerat. Every morning forty coolies gathered, talking,
shouting, quarrelling over the luggage, &c., and nothing would induce
them to be quiet. The next march was very long to Nowshera, and the
bearers let the dandy fall one time. The following night was a restless
one, and the supply of candles failed. As Mrs. E. was nearly exhausted
with sorrow, travelling, and want of sleep, Dr. Elmslie insisted on her
taking the dandy, and sending it back for him. "The next was our last
march, a very long one, very rough, and the bearers were not good, and
somehow I could not make the pillows suit the wearied frame. How much of
agony there was in this constant journeying to him in body, and to me in
spirit! Many a time I cried aloud, and made the rocks and mountains echo
with my sorrow, when he was carried on out of sight and hearing." When
he reached the first stage, his energies were all but at an end. On
arriving at Bhimbar, as the tent was not ready, the bedding was laid on
a charpae, and he lay down. "How thankful I am," said Mrs. E., "that we
are safely here." "Ah, yes, safely, so far as our limbs are concerned–no
broken legs or arms, but I feel there is something wrong _here_,"–and
Dr. Elmslie put his hand on his chest. He was much worse. After going to
bed, the pain became unbearable, and he cried, "I cannot stand this pain
and sleeplessness any longer!" A dose of morphia was administered, and
he got a little sleep. They were still thirty miles from Goojerat, and
it became an anxious question if he could ever reach it. The dhoolie was
made soft and comfortable,–they had scarcely started when he became very
ill. "My bearers would not keep me alongside of his dhoolie, and I used
to leap from the dandy and fly to his side just to see him, and then
shocked, terrified, go back again, feeling like Hagar in the wilderness,
and crying to the Lord to send help lest William should die." A special
messenger despatched to Goojerat brought the civil surgeon to the place
where they rested for the night, and he whispered hope. As the doctor
drove out, he met Mr. Perkins, the new commissioner for Goojerat, and
handed him Mrs. E.'s note, so that when the sufferers reached the
bungalow, Mr. and Mrs. Perkins appeared, and did everything that
Christian love and sympathy could suggest. Cheered by these friends of
Jesus, with a doctor at hand, and everything necessary for the invalid
now easily procurable, hope revived for a brief space, but the disease
steadily progressed, and on the evening of the 18th November, Dr.
Elmslie quietly fell asleep in Jesus.
"I gazed once more," writes Mr. Clark, "on his well-known features as he
lay peaceably in his coffin. There was an expression of repose on his
face,–there was even a smile, the smile of rest and victory; and we laid
him there to rest on the battlefield, where the whole Punjaub had been
won by English arms; and there he quietly sleeps awaiting the
resurrection of the dead."
"I HAVE FOUGHT A GOOD FIGHT, I HAVE FINISHED MY COURSE, I HAVE KEPT THE
FAITH: HENCEFORTH THERE IS LAID UP FOR ME A CROWN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS WHICH
THE LORD, THE RIGHTEOUS JUDGE, SHALL GIVE ME AT THAT DAY."