University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
DEATH OF A GOOD MAN.

Sidney slept till a late hour on the following morning,
and was at length wakened from his heavy and somewhat
perturbed slumbers, by a sound which he at first imagined
to be a shriek; but listening a moment and hearing no
further noise, he concluded it was the coinage of his own
disturbed brain; and therefore again laid his head on the
pillow, thinking before he rose he would arrange in his
own mind the proceedings for the day, and summon fortitude
to support his spirits in what might possibly be an
eternal separation from his friends.

His friends—at that thought his fancy rested on Annie.
He had bidden her adieu, but might he not call again,
tempted by the beauty of the morning to a walk? He
had not decided, when a loud and yet louder bustle below
stairs made him again start to listen. He now plainly
distinguished groans, and voices apparently in agony.

“What has happened?” said he, as his door was
thrown open with violence by little Harvey, who, with

pale face, eyes staring, and limbs trembling, stammered
out, “Oh! Sidney, come down, come down, pa' is dying!”

“Dying!” repeated Sidney, springing from his bed
and seizing his clothes, “what—how—what ails him?—
is he sick?”

“He's killed!” shrieked the child in an agony of grief,
that now, for the first time, found vent in tears. “He'll
die! he'll die! and who will take care of me?”

“I—I will,” said Sidney; “don't cry, Harvey,” and
the tears stood in his own eyes.

“But you are going away,” said the child; “oh! Sidney,
don't go!”—and he was proceeding to urge his stay,
when the voice of their mother, calling on Sidney to come
down, silenced, in Harvey's mind, every thought except
of his father's danger, and he flew down stairs with the
quickness of thought.

Sidney followed him in trepidation, and on entering
the sitting-room, saw at once the confirmation of his worst
fears. His father, covered with blood, and apparently
nearly exhausted, was extended on the couch; around
him stood his terrified, horror-struck children. His wife,
although ready to faint with grief and terror, was bathing
his temples, and endeavoring to hope he might yet be
spared to their prayers and exertions. As Sidney, awed
and silent, advanced to the couch, his father opened his
eyes and endeavored to stretch forth his hand, while he
faintly said,—“My son, you must delay your journey for
the present—I am taking my departure before you. I
am going to my long home—a journey I shall never tread
back.”

He paused, while his wife's tears fell fast on the hand
she held in hers; and Sidney hastily inquired why they
did not send for a surgeon?

“We expect Perkins every minute,” said one.

“And he is coming now,” said another.

“But he cannot save me,” replied the dying man.
“My bounds are set, and I have just reached the goal. I
feel it;—I should—for my family's sake—have been glad

—to have lived—a little longer. But God's will be done.
I am resigned to die.”

The Doctor entered.

The apathy which familiarity with scenes of suffering
and danger creates in the minds of those accustomed to
wrestle with disease, and watch the approach of the king
of terrors under every appalling form, was conquered
when Perkins beheld that good and benevolent man, in
whom every child of sorrow and trouble found a counselor
and friend, now stretched on a bed of suffering,
and read in the contraction of his features, and the ghastly
appearance of his countenance, the probable issue of his
misfortunes.

But his concern, although evincing itself by a half
smothered groan and quick change of color, was not of a
kind to induce despair or inactivity. He made immediate
preparations for an examination of the wound, which
Sidney now learned had been occasioned by his father's
being thrown from his wagon while descending a steep
hill about half a mile north of the village. He had been
abroad at an early hour, on business, and was hurrying
to reach home, on Sidney's account, that he might spend
a little time with him before his departure, when his
horse, while trotting very fast, chanced to step on a rolling
stone, lost his footing and fell headlong, and the bolt
that confined the wagon being forced out by the violence
of the shock, Squire Romilly, with the body of the vehicle,
was precipitated down a steep bank, and thrown on
a sharp stick or root of a sapling that protruded near a
foot above ground. The stick entered his back, just below
his left shoulder, and it was probable had penetrated
some vital part.

Fortunately, two pedestrians were descending the hill
at the same instant; they saw the accident and hastened
to offer assistance, raised the nearly inanimate body,
staunched the bleeding wound, and the wagon, which
had not been broken, being prepared, he was laid in it,
supported by one man while the other led the horse, and

thus brought back to the home he had lately left in health
and cheerfulness.

Dr. Perkins requested the family would withdraw
while he made the examination, fearing a sight of the
wound and blood would draw forth lamentations augmenting
the distress of the wounded man. The children
all obeyed. Squire Romilly looked on his wife.

“I shall not leave you,” said she, calmly.

“But you must,” he replied; “it will overcome you.
Go, Sidney, go and support your mother.”

“My husband,” she replied earnestly, “you must not
bid me go; I cannot leave you. I shall not faint; I can
endure anything better than to know you are suffering,
and I am not by to watch over and relieve you. And
it is my duty,” she continued, seeing him about to speak,
“and if you do not wish to make me miserable, you will
not drive me from you.”

There was no more said, and the doctor proceeded to
examine the wound.

Mrs. Romilly appeared during the whole process with
astonishing composure; she prepared the lint and bandages,
watched every change in her husband's countenance,
and administered cordials to support him, and it was not
till from the agitated manner of Dr. Perkins she became
convinced he thought the wound a mortal one, that her
fortitude forsook her. She gazed on her husband, then
turned her eyes on the doctor. Sidney saw her agony,
and sprung to her support, but she fell senseless before
he could reach her.

“My poor wife,” said the Squire feebly, as Sidney
bore her from the apartment. “My children, where are
they? Death is coming like an armed man, and I would
say a few words—my lips will soon be closed forever.”

The doctor entreated him to be composed.

“You cannot give me any hope of life,” said the
wounded man; “and if you did, my own feelings would
contradict your words. It is no time for deception—my
race is run. Call my children, then, that I may give
them my last advice—my dying blessing.”

The doctor could no longer oppose it; from the symptoms
he was convinced his recovery was impossible;
indeed he thought his dissolution very near, and that to
deprive him of the opportunity of bidding his family
farewell, would be cruelty.

The news of this fatal accident had circulated through
the village. Squire Romilly and his family were universally
beloved and respected, and the sympathy which
spontaneously burst forth on hearing the distressing tidings
was sincere.

The Rev. Mr. Cranfield was one of the first who reached
the house of sorrow. It was his office to comfort the
afflicted; but his compassion needed not the spur of
duty. His flock were his children; he felt all their calamities,
and to comfort the mourners and bind the broken
heart was not with him an artifice to gain popularity.
Not that he might boast of his faithfulness, or complain
of the pressure of his parochial duties; but he came to the
bedside of the sufferer to assuage pain, strengthen hope,
teach submission, and to prepare the dying for that world,
where he hoped and prayed to meet all his congregation;
while with the fondness of a parent bird, he

Mrs. Romilly engaged his first attention. He consoled
her grief, he calmed her agitation; not by telling her of
the uselessness of sorrow, and illustrating it by referring
to the sovereign power of that Being who “killeth and
maketh alive at his own good pleasure.” No: he spake
of the piety of her husband, of his fitness for the great
change, of the glory and happiness awaiting him, of the
infinite gain when leaving a world of change and sorrow
for one of secure and unfading bliss, and of their reunion
so shortly to occur. Why should a christian shrink at
death? It is because faith is weak, and cannot look
within the veil. Who can grasp the infinite, or comprehend
the mysteries of that world which no created eye
hath seen?

When Mr. Cranfield had, in some degree, succeeded in

calming the first torrent of grief which nearly overwhelmed
this affectionate wife at the terrible certainty of being
deprived of him who had been the light of her path, her
guide and counselor and friend, Sidney informed her of
his father's request to see them. She dried her tears,
and endeavored by her composure to restore that of her
children; and then, supported by Mr. Cranfield and her
son, she again entered the apartment of death, followed
by all her family.

Squire Romilly's countenance had undergone a great
change. The severe pain which had, during the operation,
distorted his manly features, was much abated;
and something that at first had appeared like impatience
or anxiety, was wholly past. All was now faith, hope
and peace.

His high and expanded forehead, which time had but
lightly touched, and where neither care nor grief had
ever stamped a furrow, looked calm as a summer sunset;
his dark expressive eyes were lighted up with the
radiance of joy, so calm, so benign, that their glance
spoke at once of heaven; and the smile of benevolence
and love hovered on his parted lips, as if the dear affections
and kind feelings he had cherished on earth were
rendered dearer and kinder by the purity of the region
which his spirit could even now anticipate.

Mr. Cranfield looked; and that look sufficed at once
to inform him of the situation of his dying brother. Hope
had till then whispered that he might be saved; and he
entered the room with a secret belief of being able to impart
the same confidence to the sorrowing family. But
now he could only press the hand of the sufferer, and silently
ejaculate—“God, thy will be done!”

Squire Romilly was the first to break the impressive
silence. He cast his eyes around and saw those he most
loved were all assembled. They surrounded the bed.
The whole apartment was now nearly filled by the sympathizing
neighbors, who came silently in awe and grief.
The doctor, with a face of anxiety, leaned at the foot of
the bed, steadfastly watching every symptom of change

in his patient, and studying if there were any further
means he might attempt for his preservation; but the dejection
that clouded his usually gay countenance, declared
he had no hope.

“You have come,” said the Squire, addressing his
pastor in his own mellow and placid tones, “you have
come to witness my death, or rather my entrance on
eternal life. A short, a very short time, and I shall be
admitted to the society of the blessed. I know in whom
I have believed,” continued he, elevating his voice, and
grasping closer the hand that rested in his—“I feel an
assurance of heaven—and would my beloved wife, and
these dear children but acquiesce in the dispensation of
Providence, would they resign me without tears or murmurs—oh!
how willingly, how joyfully should I, at this
moment, yield my breath!”

He paused, and clasped his wife's trembling hand—the
sobs and sighs of the children became audible; while the
deep commiseration of the spectators evinced itself in that
profound silence, maintained to prevent the expression of
feelings which might augment the grief it would strive to
tranquilize. Many shaded their faces, and many a heart-breathed
prayer ascended to supplicate for his recovery,
or, (and their tears flowed while anticipating such an
event probable) if that could not be, that the immortal
soul might be received to mansions of glory. Ah! the
sight of death makes the spirit eloquent. Many prayed
there who never prayed before.

Squire Romilly resumed. “I could have wished for a
little space to have arranged some affairs, that I must now
leave unsettled. The world still clings to the heart of the
husband and father; but the Christian”—and his eye
beamed upward with angelic lustre—“the Christian can
trust in God. To his care I resign thee, my wife,
my best beloved;—trust in Him and you will need no
other protector. And, my dear children, if you have
ever loved your father, I charge you to honor his memory
by obeying and cherishing your mother, and living in
peace among yourselves; Grave it on your hearts to treat

all with whom you have intercourse as you wish to be
treated. That is a rule you may always follow; a principle
you can always apply; a command of God which
if you do, in heart, and spirit and action obey, you may
be certain of happiness, of eternal blessedness. O! it is
not professions—I have been a professor these twenty-five
years; but that recollection is of small importance
compared with the thought that I have, to the best of my
ability, endeavored to perform what appeared to be my
duty in the several relations in which I have been placed.
Yet do not mistake me—I plead no merits of my own;
—I have done no more than my duty—nay, I have often
come short—and I rely entirely on the mercy of my
Redeemer for pardon and salvation. But I feel a sweet
assurance of acceptance in his sight; and I feel a serenity
while reflecting on a life spent in endeavors to serve Him
and promote the happiness of my fellow creatures. O!
the wealth of the whole world could not impart such consolation!”

Here a faintness came over him, and for several minutes
they thought him expiring. The wild grief of the younger
children, who were witnessing this awful scene, is indescribable;
and their cries and sobs became so agitated that
not a person in the room could refrain from tears.

“My dear, dear father!” shrieked the little girls, while
Harvey, without uttering a word, clasped his neck, and
kissing repeatedly the pale face he loved more than all
the world, sunk nearly insensible on his bosom.

Mrs. Romilly had been lifting her soul to God in mental
prayer for strength and resignation to endure what His
will appointed her; but the sight of her children's grief
overcame her anew; and for a little time such a loud
wailing was heard as is only called forth when the spirit
is broken with anguish, and wholly subdued by the suddenness
and intensity of its sufferings.

The soul of the dying saint seemed arrested in its flight.
Making a strong effort, he again looked around; a smile
so sweet, so animated, lighted up his features, that in
spite of their ghastly whiteness, those who gazed almost

fancied he was reviving to life. He laid his hand on the
head of Harvey.

“God bless you, my darling boy—my wife, my children,
give me your hands once more;—there—Father in
heaven, protect and bless them. You must not mourn
thus for me—O that you did but know what joy, what
unspeakable rapture is mine!—then your lamentations
would be turned to songs. I see my Redeemer—he is
extending his arms to receive me! Farewell, my wife!
—Sidney, be a father to these little ones, and protect
your mother. O Jesus! I come, I come. Farewell,
earth; welcome, welcome heaven!”—and he expired!

“Pray how is the Squire now?” said Deacon Jones,
with an impatient tone, as he came puffing up to the door
where Doctor Perkins had retreated to conceal his emotion.

“He—he is gone forever,” replied the doctor, taking
his handkerchief from his eyes.

“Dead!” exclaimed the old deacon, with a convulsive
start.

“Yes, he is.”

“Dead! do you say,” and he twisted his face into a
variety of strange contortions, intending to express grief,
while he looked on the doctor's manly face all bathed in
tears. But tears were a melting of the soul in which the
deacon had seldom indulged, and not a drop could he
make start.

“Well now, I did'nt think of finding him dead. I
have been up to Jerry Sprague's this morning to get him
to come and kill a calf. He is the best hand I know of;
and when I come home my woman told what had happened,
and I started right off—hem! I have come so
fast I can hardly breathe—hem. How did the Squire
die? easy?”

“As easy as an infant falls asleep,” replied Perkins.

“O! I don't mean his bodily pain. How was his
mind composed?” inquired the deacon, eagerly.

“As heaven: if there ever were a saint he was one.”

“Well, well, I hope he was,” replied the deacon, with

a shrug; “but there was a few questions I should liked
to have asked him before he died. He was a good man
—but on some points a little too lax—hardly what you
might call orthodox in principles.”

“I don't know to what principles you allude,” said
the doctor, warmly; “but I do know there never was a
more upright man, nor one who more scrupulously performed
all his duties, than the Squire. If such as he
are not admitted to heaven, I should doubt whether any
would be. He lived like a Christian, and had you witnessed
his death, you would have acknowledged he died
like one.”

“O! well,” replied the other, “I'm glad on't; but I
do wish I'd been here a little sooner, just for my own
satisfaction.”

“If you could feel dissatisfied with his life,” observed
the doctor, drily, “you would not probably have been
more charitably disposed by what he said at his death.”

“Why, yes I might,” replied the pertinacious deacon:
“I don't hold moral actions to be a sufficient evidence
of grace in the heart. We must, doctor, be sound in
doctrine. We must hold fast the faith once delivered
to the saints, before we can feel assured of the pardon
of our sins. And those who are thus rooted and grounded
in the truth certainly live a life of godliness, for, saith
the Savior, `If any man will do his will, he shall know
of the doctrine.”'

“But they must do the will, before they are to know of
the doctrine,” returned the doctor; “and so, according to
your own principles, practice must precede faith. Or, in
other terms, let a man talk as long and loudly as he
pleases about conversions, and confessions, and creeds,
yet, if he do not perform the requisites of a Christian,
if he do not `deal justly, love mercy, and walk humbly
with God,' we have not the least reason to credit his
assertions of his own superior sanctity, or believe him
elected to be an heir of eternal salvation.”

The deacon's little grey eyes flashed forth the holy
indignation of his spirit at hearing these Arminian

heresies; but Warren Perkins was an obstinate fellow,
and one whom he did not like to provoke to argument;
so he settled his lank visage with a most determined and
dolorous expression of sadness, and walked forward to
enjoy the spectacle of mortality, and impart his ghostly
comfort and advice to the bereaved family within.

“I would,” said Perkins, walking hastily along the
avenue, and flourishing his handkerchief as if in derision
of his adversary,—“I would, as a nostrum to fit me for
heaven, given more for a single grain of Squire Romilly's
practice, than I would for a pound of the deacon's faith.”