DEATH WITHOUT WARNING. 131 Watch therefore, for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.' Perhaps the reader may be willing by this time to turn from incidents of an amusing to one of a serious character. The changes of the world and the uncertainty of life have ever been themes of solemn declamation and warning. Reposing on the lap of prosperity and buoyed up by the joyous spirit of health it is difficult for us to realize these unquestioned and unquestionable truths. We are told that we know not what a day may bring forth, and yet we lay our plans and anticipate such and such issues almost with certainty. The events of every day are, as it were, mapped out before our vision, and we feel very much as if we had the determination and arrangegement of all things in our hands. We seem to be unaware that all changes and events are under the direction of superior intelligence, that our own times are at the disposal of him who called us into exist ence. We are very likely to say to ourselves the following, or something similar: To-day or to-morrow we will go into such a city and continue there a year and buy and sell and get gain;' whereas, in the language of the apostle, we know not what shall be on the morrow, for what is our life? It is even a vapor.' We should, as the apostle would have us, recognize the providence of God. We should bear in mind that life is uncertain and that we can 132 DEATH WITHOUT WARNING. not count with any assurance upon a succession of years, or months, or even days. This should be the language of our lips- If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that.' These thoughts have been suggested to my mind by an event of melancholy interest. The circumstances were of that nature that I cannot but feel myself justified in alluding to them in a public manner. It is not however my intention to flatter the deceased, or even to discuss the elements of his character, but to contemplate the manner of his death and indulge in those reflections which naturally arise. If those who read derive any spiritual benefit from the contemplation of this event, the purpose for which it is introduced will be answered. I trust the privilege will be granted me of a somewhat minute narration. On Saturday, 14th October, 1837, I went to Scituate. The clergyman of the Parish being absent with his family on a visit to Connecticut, accommodations were provided for me at the residence of Dr. Otis, the principal physician of the place. Some years previous I had been at his house, and of course did not feel myself to be a perfect stranger. He received me in that cordial and hospitable manner for which he was distinguished. He had been indisposed for a few days from a disorder common to the season, but now considered himself as about recovered. This disorder was altogether independent of that which so sud DEATH WITHOUT WARNING. 133 denly brought him to his end. His countenance indicated health and the enjoyment of life. I remarked to him, in the course of the conversation that his aspect was that of one who had been favored with good health. Yes,' said he, I have been highly favored, and I ought to be grateful. Since I commenced the practice of physic — which is forty-five years I have never been prevented by indisposition from visiting my patients day and night. I have never been really sick.' 'Very remarkable indeed,' I replied. You have been truly favored.' He further observed, I have been in the practice so long I have got tired of it. It is no object to me,and if I find my health at all affected hereafter, I shall give up the most of my business.' He retired for the night in good season, and early in the morning was called to visit a patient. He went, and seemed to be perfectly well when he returned, and continued so through the day. During the evening he was in uncommonly good spirits, conversed with great freedom on a variety of subjects, and was alternately playful and serious. In the course of the evening he had much to say about the old English worthies in literature, and sent his daughter for a copy of Goldsmith's essays and poems. He read aloud to me the Retaliation', in which are contained the portraits of various literary characters of distinction. He read with peculiar interest, and reread the descriptions of the character of Burke, Richard Cumberland, David Garrick, Sir Joshua 134 DEATH WITHOUT WARNING. Reynolds, and Dr. Douglas. He finished by a recitation of the poetical epistle to Lord Clare on the reception from him of a haunch of venison. This piece is somewhat humorous and satirical. He read in a loud tone and with great zest. In reading he was obliged to assume different characters, and his voice admitting of much variety and compass,he succeeded to my admiration. Such spirited and correct recitation, and from one who had nearly reached three-score years and ten, was altogether surprizing. The tones of his clear and sonorous voice still ring in my ears. As I gazed at himall life and action-his clear and spacious brow unwrinkled by care or age-his tall and majestic form,as erect and vigorous as when the airs of youth played around him- I could not but say to myself, here is a man that will withstand the tempests of life for many years. If any are likely to reach a good old age, it is he now before me. His locks are grey, but time will have an opportunity to whiten them. It will be years before he wrinkles that cheerful brow, or bends that lofty frame. It will be long before the silver cord is loosed and the golden bowl broken. He had sent word to one of his neighbors that if he went to Boston in the morning and had time to call, he wished much to see him. At half past nine he retired perfectly well, and awoke perfectly well. He said to his wife, I feel so well that I have a mind to go to Boston to-day.' Between seven and eight he arose, and as his ward DEATH WITHOUT WARNING. 135 robe was nearly completed, he suddenly fell his length upon the floor. It was a fall from which he never arose. The swift dart of death had pierced him through the heart. He was alone. I was in the room beneath standing by the window and, what is remarkable enough, perusing some of those passages which he had recited so admirably the night before. The fall was heavy. A groan immediately followed and all was still. Of the extent of the calamity I did not dream. Perhaps some one had leaped, or fallen from a chair and got hurt a little. In a few minutes the cry of death reached my ears, and the shriek of agony resounded through the apartments. I ascended the stairs to the room above, and there lay that noble form in the arms of women, whose eyes dropt tears of deepest sorrow. The struggle seemed to be over, and the shadows of death to have descended upon him. He spake not. He moved not. His eyes rolled heavy and lustreless in their sockets. We replaced him on his couch. I felt his pulse. It was gone. I placed my hand upon his brow. It was yet warm with life. The vital spark however had flown, and no physician's art could rekindle or recall it. 'The agony is o'er; nature her debt Has paid the earth is covered with a clay Is warm with an existence reft away |