THERE are certain events which leave an indelible impression upon the mind, and such was the kind of impression made upon mine by an event which occurred to myself nearly half a century ago. I think I can see that scene even yet, and can vividly recall the astonishment with which I regarded it. I was a very young Christian then, and it was my first visit to a dying bed, so that the impression was all the more likely to be deep and lasting. But let me to my narrative without further preface.
J—D—was long in my father's service as a gardener, and a more faithful servant could not be found. As the grounds were somewhat extensive he had a good deal to do, and he did it well— so much so, indeed, that he required no looking after. "Is that a weed?" he said one day, when he happened to light upon such a plant in one of his beds, as if it was to him a matter of astonishment that such a thing should be seen in the garden of which he had the care; and many a joke was manufactured out of that little occurrence in after-days. He was an immense favorite with us children, to whom he was always kind, and often we would flock into his cottage and laugh at his pawky jokes and quaint sayings, especially on the afternoon of the Lord's Day, when he was at leisure, and when we were sure to find him, spectacles on nose, poring over the "big ha' Bible,” for J—was a religious man, a regular reader of the Bible, a regular attendant at the kirk, and a regular partaker of the "sacrament." In a word, he was regarded as a kind of model man for his station in life; and the man who said that he was not a faithful servant and an excellent Christian, would have been regarded by most as a bigot and a fool.
But time sped onward. My father died; I grew up to manhood; and J—D—became an old man, and at last tidings came that he was dying also. I went to see him, and entered the room where he lay, without being informed as to his state of mind. What a change had come over him He had had a slight stroke of paralysis, which, without affecting his powers of motion, had greatly affected his powers of speech, so that he stammered and spoke with difficulty. But where was the placid expression of countenance which had ever distinguished him? Where was the pleasant calm of his mild blue eyes? Where his quiet and rather slow manner of speech? All gone His countenance was haggard, his eyes looked wild and glaring; he was restless, and his feeble hands fumbled with the bedclothes as one that seemed scarcely conscious of what he was doing. Everything betokened a mind ill at ease; but what he said proved that with awful and startling distinctness, for the one thought that filled his mind, and on which he talked, or rather babbled, all the time I was beside him, was the thought of eternity. But such an eternity! Not in anywise the " rest that remaineth for the people of God," but rather a dark, terrible, boundless ocean, without port or bay, to which he was being borne by an irresistible fate, and on which he must needs launch without compass, rudder, or pilot. "Oh, Eternity!" was his ceaseless cry. “Eternity—awful—eternity! Oh, Mr. H—, what a terrible thing eternity is! Oh, awful—dreadful—eternity!" and so on, with little or no variation. It was in vain I tried to speak peace to his poor troubled soul, by pointing him to Christ, and quoting the few scriptures I then knew. He listened with wonted deference while I was speaking, but as soon as I ceased to speak he recommenced his heart-rending monotonous wail. I never saw him again,— he died a few days afterward,—but I never forgot the scene of his deathbed.
Reader, how would you like to die such a death as that? Does it look like the death of the righteous? A celebrated poet has said,—
“For modes of faith let fools and zealots fight,
They can't be wrong whose life is in the right.”
Well, as far as I can judge, this old man's life was as nearly right as most men's, and a great deal better than that of many. He was strictly moral; he was most faithful to his master; he was religious, —in a word, no man could have honestly said, so far as I can judge, a single word to his disparagement. And yet, when death came, he shrank back in horror as if he had lived like an abandoned criminal. I judge him not; but this at least is plain, that morality, faithfulness, and religion, blessed as these things are, did not avail to speak peace to his soul at the all-important moment when he was about to appear before God. And yet the thief upon the cross, although his life had been wicked, and his death ignominious, had no such experience, his end was peace. We know in whom he trusted, and so can account for his peace.
But did the moral, faithful, and religious gardener trust in the same Savior? If 'so, then all is well; for although clouds and darkness surrounded his deathbed, all was brightness beyond. But if not—if he put his trust in his morality, faithfulness, and religion, then—ah, me!
H. M.