That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward
paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and
smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was
withdrawn upon the brink of the grave--it could not assist, could not
support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.
It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to
beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank
the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early
symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading
leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly
things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be
possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."
He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite
for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a
sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his
wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his
medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and
after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He
started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking
to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to
relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops
upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and
shut out the light of earth forever.
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