Part 5 (1/2)

I often feel impatient, And mourn the long delay, I never can be settled While he remains away.

But we shall not long be parted, For I know he'll quickly come, And we shall dwell together In that happy, happy home.

We were about to say farewell to the loved brother whose end was rapidly approaching. His going from this life to that beyond the grave was one of the most remarkable for faith and hope, quietly exhibiting the spirit of Him who went about continually doing good.

There was no attempt to argue with death, and ask for a respite to prepare for the journey through the valley of the shadow of death to the golden sh.o.r.e beyond. We cannot do better here than lay before the reader the following communication written by their son to their former pastor, the Rev. George O. Phelps, of Utica, N.Y. It is a brief narrative of their last hours on earth, which were a triumphant ending to a long life of devotion to their Master:

NEW YORK CITY, November 15, 1886.

Your kind letter was duly received and contents noted. At your request, I will endeavor to give you a brief account of the ”goings” of my departed parents. In a spirit of humility I desire to avoid all expressions of fulsomeness when speaking of their lives and last moments, though it might be said that those who were at the death-bed of either, and saw them in their last hours, would have been willing to have left all to exchange places with them. I would say, in the words of one of old, ”Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my end be like theirs.” As they lived so they died! As father lay down, so he never moved until he was carried into the arms of Jesus.

All through his two days' sickness, as we put our ears to his lips, we could hear him earnestly praying for Allen Street Church, her minister and people, and for his family. Our mother would frequently speak to him, saying:

”Just one word, papa!”

But he would only shake his head, without uttering a word.

The history of his going was as follows:

On Tuesday, October 19th, father left the office for the last time.

When Wednesday morning, October 20th, dawned, he complained of a pain in his side, remarking that he ”did not think he would go to the office before noon.” He did not go at all.

I went to the house in the evening, to find that the doctor had been called _twice_, and that father had pleurisy. We pa.s.sed through the night watching and hoping for favorable changes; but, unfortunately, the next (Thursday) morning, October 21st, pneumonia set in, and the case became complicated. Already very weak, he grew more feeble every hour. He had done his part of this life's work, and seemed conscious that the Universal Master was about to finish the mansion into which his servant was fully prepared to enter. A peaceful, quiet Christian in the home circle; a zealous worker in the Church; watchful in his business relations with the world, he looked the very embodiment of peaceful repose in his last moments, and on his earthly bed of sleeping rest--so life-like, too, that I dare not say bed of death--as he breathed his last at 2.10 A.M., Sat.u.r.day, October 23d.

The expressions and sentiments of many who visited the house during his sickness, and while lying in the casket (Roman Catholics, believers, and unbelievers) were all in harmony with the idea that ”if ever a human being entered heaven, he had gone straight to that realm of blissful repose.”

But to go back just prior to his demise, when the doctor quietly told us he could not live another day. We tried hard to be resigned on that Friday night, feeling sure that the end was near. After the meeting at the Church was dismissed, the minister came to the house and remained with us until after midnight, obtaining from father the words and signs that are precious as he pa.s.sed away; the last audible words to me being: ”William, G.o.d bless you and your family!”

In the history of _my_ mother's demise, I will briefly state that, on Sat.u.r.day night, October 23d, while father lay asleep in Jesus, she went to the store, as was her life-long custom, with some tracts, and to purchase a few things. On her return after coming up-stairs she threw herself down upon the sofa with the words, ”No papa to come and carry up the basket for me to-night!” and there she sat in deep affliction, as if her heart would break.

On Sabbath night, October 24th, when quite a number of people were in the house, she very earnestly exhorted them in Christ Jesus, allowing no one to pa.s.s un.o.bserved. In turning to one young wife, I heard her kindly urge, ”Always be cheerful and happy; don't discourage your husband by always complaining. He will also get discouraged. That is what ruins many a happy home.” Singular to note, my mother had scarcely got through, when she, too, complained of a pain in her side, remarking, ”It is papa's pain.”

On Monday morning she arose to eventually lie upon the sofa in an unconscious state. The funeral services over father's remains were to be observed in the Allen Street Presbyterian Church at 1 P.M.: therefore the doctor came in to arouse her, and gave her a stimulant, so that she went to the church with us, returning home instead of going to the grounds, after the services; and here I may say her pastor preached a very solemn sermon, exactly in harmony with the tenor of father's private and public life.

One thing happened (when the relatives were invited to step forward and see the remains for the last time) that was singular, viz.: As my mother bent over to take a last look at the life-long partner of her joys and sorrows, her veil became attached to the handle of the casket, which my sister was compelled to stoop and unloosen.

Without being superst.i.tious, this looked like the dead reaching forth to the living.

At all events, on Tuesday, October 26th, mother was confined to her bed, and, as she had said, she had ”papa's pain”--pleurisy. The next day, Wednesday, October 27th, pneumonia followed, when it required three persons to care for her in the day, and three to attend her through the night, with no change for the better.

On Thursday there was no favorable sign to note--suspense was still in the balancing beam. Toward Friday night, October 29th, all hope having vanished, my mother was quietly informed that ”her day was short!” To which she responded: ”My day is short. I must finish my work!”

”Then occurred a repet.i.tion of the previous call upon the Allen Street Church, a second Friday in succession. In response, the minister, elder, and' several young men came promptly to the house to hear the testimony of a sainted mother in Israel going to rest.

After supplication in prayer and a hymn of praise, the minister asked mother:

”Have you any word for me, sister?”

Turning over and taking his hand, she said:

”No! you know these things yourself. Preach the gospel uncolored!”