What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview,
no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my
brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father
which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised
his spirits. He was composed enough, however: 'I ought to be grateful,'
said he; 'I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what
more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?'
My father's end was evidently at hand.
And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my
hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did
and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to
observe, that it is possible to feel deeply, and yet make no outward
sign.
And now for the closing scene.
At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was awakened from
sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in
which I slept. I knew the cry, it was the cry of my mother; and I also
knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment
paralysed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless--the
stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by
a violent effort, bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang
from the bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly about
the room; she had awoke, and found my father senseless in the bed by her
side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported him in
the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and, snatching
up a light that was burning, he held it to my father's face. 'The
surgeon, the surgeon!' he cried; then, dropping the light, he ran out of
the room followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the
senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall,
and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed
heavily against my bosom--at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right,
there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words
which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and
then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes.
I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before. It
was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to support
my dying father.
There was a pause, again my father spoke: I heard him speak of Minden,
and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, and then he uttered another
name, which at one period of his life was much in his lips, the name of
. . . but this is a solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I shook, and
thought all was over; but I was mistaken--my father moved, and revived
for a moment; he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make
no doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then
that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly--it
was the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips, the brave old
soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped,
yielded up his soul.