CHAPTER XX.
It was late at night when I reached Glasgow, and I travelled on to my father’s house, my mind filled with a fearful anxiety that he was not in life, and I knocked at the door with a palpitating heart—a light beamed across the hall window—I heard a low moan—another—then my mother’s voice inquiring, ‘Who is there?’
‘It is me,’ replied I.
The door opened—‘Thank God,’ said she, ‘that you have arrived, for your poor father has beenanxiously expecting you, and was beginning to despair of seeing you before his eyes were closed for ever.’
‘Is he so ill? Oh! let me see him.’
A hectic flush tinged her pale cheek, while she motioned me to be silent, and leading me into another room—‘My child,’ said she, ‘you may prepare yourself for the worst, for little hope remains of his recovery. He has been confined to bed—no, not to bed, for the nature of his malady will not allow him to lie; but he has sat in his arm-chair, with his head resting on a pillow before him, for three weary months—no interval of rest—no cessation of pain; but he is calm and resigned, no murmur passes his lips, and his only wish is, that he may be permitted to see his child and die. He is now so weak that I think it would be imprudent for you to see him, without preparing him for the meeting.’ But her precautions were unavailing—he had heard my voice when I entered, and he now called upon her. The next minute I was at his side, bedewing his hand with my tears—he attempted to speak, but his voice was choked in the utterance. I looked up in his face, the hue of death was upon it—he gasped for breath, and fell back in his chair. The agony I felt at that moment was indescribable, for I thought he was dead. My mother having used the necessary means for his recovery, a long low moan succeeded her endeavours; he slowly unclosed his eyes, and she motioned me to leave the room. When I next saw him, he was prepared for the meeting; a flush of joy animated his wasted features while he said, ‘My dear boy, I begged that I might see you once more before I closed my eyes in death. That prayer has been granted: I can now say, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”’
‘And can you forgive all my folly and ingratitude—forget all the distress I have occasioned you?’
‘Forgive you? oh, yes! you little know a parent’s feelings. But there is One whom you have offended, whose pardon I hope you desire and ask—One who delights to forgive—ah! cling to Him, my child, Hewill never forsake you. I will soon have crossed “that bourne from whence no traveller returns.” In a short time you will have no father; but it would smooth my passage to the tomb, to think that you felt inclined to throw yourself into the hands of the living God, and beg his assistance to curb that unstable spirit, which has caused you and us so much misery; and that we shall yet meet, no wanderer lost, a family in heaven—there is joy in the thought.’
I felt my heart softened more than it had been in all my misery; surely adversity is no tamer of the human heart—at least, I never felt it so. I am of opinion that it is calculated rather to draw forth the darker passions of our nature, and shut up all the holy avenues of the soul. I wished to sit up with my father that night, but my mother urged me to retire to rest. I did so, but I could not sleep; I lay ruminating on my past life, and on my father’s situation, my mind stung with remorse. I had learned that his distress of mind, when I first went abroad, had been great, and that insensibly his health had sunk, and that his disorder (which proved eventually to be a cancer of the stomach) had been lingering on him for some years—I therefore could not but consider that I had contributed to the state he was now in.
He grew rapidly worse; he was never satisfied when I was out of his presence, and I generally sat up with him at night. His malady caused him the most excruciating pain, but he bore it with the greatest patience and fortitude. He had always been remarkable for his piety, but it was that unostentatious kind of it which shows itself more in actions than words: the world was receding from his view, but he did not feel or feign those ecstasies which we often have described in the obituary of religious people; his was an humble confidence, alike removed from despondency and presumption. It was remarkable that this gave offence to some of his more enthusiastic brethren. One, in particular, having called upon him, seemed to feel disappointed that he was relating no heavenlyraptures or beatific visions, and very anxiously endeavoured to draw him into some confession of this kind.
‘My friend,’ said my father, ‘you seem disappointed that I do not speak in certain and rapturous terms of my future state; but if we consider that when we have done our utmost, we are but unprofitable servants, we ought to beware of presumption, and not give the reins to a wild imagination, on the verge of a solemn eternity, and on the point of entering the presence of the Judge of all the earth. I feel a confidence in my Almighty Creator—I know he is a God of truth, and I rely on his promise—I know he is a God of love and mercy, and I have given up my all into his hands; more than this I dare not say.’
The stranger felt reproved, and urged the subject no farther.
All his affairs had been previously settled—he arranged every particular concerning his funeral, and counselled me on my conduct after his decease, with the utmost calmness; but I could not listen to it, although I was persuaded that he would not recover: there was something so heart-rending, and to me so premature, in the contemplation of his death, that I could not bring myself to reply to any of his suggestions.
He was now near his end; but the more his body wasted, his intellect grew clearer—his soul seemed to wax strong in the anticipation of its freedom, and rejoice in the prospect of shuffling off its mortal coil.
It was nearly three weeks since I had returned home; my mother and I were sitting beside him, when he expressed a wish to lie down in his bed. This he had attempted before I came home, but from the excessive pain it produced, he was obliged to abandon the idea. He now, however, felt assured that he could lie, and we carried him to the bed, but it was in vain; the horizontal posture caused him such agony that we were obliged to raise him, when he fainted in our arms. I thought he was dead—we placed him ona sofa—he recovered—one bright flash of intellect pervaded his features—for a few minutes he seemed as if perfectly well; and observing us weeping, he was surprised, and asked the reason. He appeared neither to feel pain, nor to remember that he had felt any; a gleam of hope shot across our minds that he might yet recover.—Ah no! his soul was on the threshold, pluming her wing for an eternal flight!—She fled—the celestial fire that animated his features, gave place to the cold damp of death—his lip quivered—one convulsive gasp, and he was no more!
The day arrived on which I was to follow my father’s remains to the tomb. A torpid feeling had pervaded my mind since his death, nor did I feel any of those emotions which people in such circumstances are said to feel—he was even consigned to the grave, and the last sod smoothed over it, and yet I waked not to sensibility. When I returned home, our relations and friends were assembled, and although there was much commonplace expression of grief, and just encomiums passed on his character as a man and a Christian, still my heart was like a fountain sealed up. The last friend had departed, and I sat on the sofa on which my father had breathed his last, absorbed in the same melancholy stupor. The day had been stormy, and the pattering rain dashed against the windows, while the wind, sweeping along in sullen gusts, whistled through the casement, now wild and irregular—now low and mournful! There was something in this that struck a kindred chord within my bosom, and melted my whole soul. Oh! there are answering tones in nature, responsive to every feeling of humanity, from the light note of gladness, to the dying accents of despair!
I awakened, as it were, from a dream, to all that desolateness of heart, which those only who have felt can understand, and looking round the room, became conscious that I was alone in every sense of the word—bereft of my best friend—he who had centred all hiscare and solicitude in me—he whom I had repaid with ingratitude—he who, had he lived, would have been my director and friend, was gone for ever, and I was left alone in the world, ‘a wretch unfitted with an aim.’
It was my father’s wish that I should procure my discharge, and settle at home in some business, to which I was by no means averse: I therefore lost no time in taking the necessary step for that purpose, and procured my freedom. Previous to my being emancipated, I had looked forward to the event as the consummation of all my wishes. I thought that when I could once breathe freely, all other good things would follow, and I indulged in many Utopian dreams; but when the much desired object was accomplished, I found myself surrounded by difficulties. I had gone into the army a mere boy, my service had been principally abroad. The life of a soldier is not one where people learn worldly wisdom, and I now felt myself as much a child in that respect, as when I first left my native home to seek for reputation in the wars.
I was acquainted with no business to which I could turn my attention, and I endeavoured to procure a situation of some kind; but here my boyish sins and military life were visited upon me. The cool calculating people of my native city felt no inclination to employ one who had manifested so much unsteadiness in his early days; and besides this, they considered an individual who had been in the army the very worst person they could employ—they were all lazy, good-for-nothing fellows; in short, there exists an insurmountable objection to such men—the moral character of the individual is nothing—he has been guilty of being in the army, and that is sufficient. My father’s arrangements in my favour, that might have secured me against these evils, were set aside, for want of some formality of law, and my bark was thrown on the ocean of life, to be driven along by the current,without compass or chart to guide its course—He who would have been my pilot,
—— had reach’d the shore,Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar
—— had reach’d the shore,Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar
—— had reach’d the shore,Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar
—— had reach’d the shore,
Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar
My own efforts were of little avail to combat the difficulties that I had to encounter. My father’s friends and acquaintances, remembering all my childish follies, and the greater number of them being dull, thorough-paced men of business, whose blood had glided through its icy channel in the same even current from the time they came into the world, could not believe that a warm imagination might lead a boy astray from the path of prudence, without his heart being depraved. They saw nothing in me but the blackguard boy, who had ran away from his parents; and they rung eternal cautions in my ears, accompanied by wise shakes of the head, and doubts lavishly expressed of my steadiness. They could ill dissemble the thorough contempt they had for my capacity for business: no wonder, they had all outstripped me in the necessary qualifications of chicanery and selfishness—I acted from natural impulse, and often wrong; but it was myself that suffered—they acted systematically, their eyes fixed steadily on their own interest, ready to take advantage of the follies of those around them. I speak from experience. I have found individuals who hypocritically deplored my want of wisdom, while in the act of taking advantage of my folly: while others, on the pretence of caring for my soul’s salvation, wished to embue my mind with their religious prejudices, and cramp my conscience within the narrow bounds marked out by their particular sect; and when I claimed a right to think for myself on these matters, they shunned me as a reprobate, or decried me as an infidel. I have found many things to disgust me in my passage through life; but never anything equal to the hypocritical cant of many professing sectarians.
Thus, as it were, cut off from society, and my placefilled up in it, I did not possess the necessary courage to force through these difficulties, and I remained in an undecided state for some time. My manners had not been framed in the world’s school, and I felt all thatmauvaise hontethat people of a sensitive mind generally feel in such a situation, which, along with a proud feeling that caught fire at the slightest look, or word indicative of contempt, rendered my progress in the world almost a thing impossible.
This feeling induced me to decline the assistance of those who wished to afford me an opportunity of mixing with it, and I retired within myself, unknowing and unknown, affecting to feel contempt for those whom I was afraid to mix with. I was in danger of sinking into a complete misanthrope, and I confined myself so much to the house and my books, that my health began to be impaired. My mother, seeing the apathy and torpid state into which I was fast sinking, endeavoured to arouse me to some exertion, and her arguments had so much effect, that it made me resolve to try some business; but nothing could induce me to do so in Glasgow. I accordingly set about removing to a different part of the country—embarked in a business that I knew nothing about—neglected all the necessary caution which a more intimate knowledge of the world would have taught me—became the dupe of those who chose to take the trouble to deceive me—looked forward to results without calculating the intermediate steps, and in a short time had the pleasure of being as poor as ever. But here let me pay a tribute of gratitude to individuals, who, in a strange place, came generously forward with their advice and purse to assist me, when I needed assistance—who, though truly religious people, did not ask me, before they offered it, what church I sat in, or what my early life had been.—The effects of my ignorance of business could not then be rectified; but I shall ever retain a grateful remembrance of their disinterested goodness.
It is useless to go through all the circumstances that induced me to resume the uniform of a soldier; suffice it to say, that it was the result. My only consolation now is, that in spite of my folly, and the untoward circumstances which have occasionally thwarted my passage through life, I can look back on my errors with a conviction that they were more of the head than the heart.
GLASGOW:PRINTED BY S. AND T. DUNN.