What a Dying Man Thinks About [pp. 184-188]

WHAT A DrING Mi
possible view, and yet a change may come as
suddenly as the dropping of a mask. Will all
masks fall when we come to the last scene of
the drama? To test this, let us imagine the
close of our earthly career. And notwithstanding this in the Ladies' Repository, we will assume that the reader is a man, and that the
yarious-relations of life may be duly represented;
we will assume that he is a husband and a
father, and a reputable member of the Church;
in short, that he is a sort of average man, and
that he is going to die in about the usual way.
You then, dear reader, are supposed to be the
man; so rouse up, and give the case a fair hearing, seeing that what is now mere conjecture
and imagination will soon be more than fancy.
Suppose that you awake, say some morning
next week, conscious that your sleep has not
been refreshing. You are weary, weak, dispirited. You rise, and try to eat your morning
meal as usual. You go to your place of business, hoping that your ill feelings will wear off,
as they have done many a time before. But
they do not wear off, and business drags heavily. You are conscious that there is a weight
iupon body and mind. Before the usual hour
comes, you determine to go home and rest.
You are anxious about certain items of business, but you content yourself with giving your
clerk special instructions. You close day-book
and ledger, tell him what to do with the key of
the safe, and then you depart with weary steps,
and with your mind shadowed by an indefinable
dread and despondency, which you try to account for, but can not. Reaching your house,
you tell your wife that you do not feel exactly
well, and so concluded to come home early.
You lie down on a sofa, and try to sleep.
Thoughts of business still follow you, and you
send a message in regard to something which
you forgot while there, and again you lie down,
close your eyes, and try to sleep. Your sluimbers are broken, and mingled with dreams of
l)ain, loss, or danger, from which you wake
with a start. Night comes, and you go to bed,
comforting yourself with the hope that morning
will find you well again. Your sleep is troubled and unrefreshing, and when the morning
comes, you make an effort to rise, and find
yourself weak and dizzy with the attempt.
Your wife insists on sending for the physician;
you tell her that there is no necessity for it,
that you will be all right in a day or two; but
you finally consent. The doctor comes, and
you explain to him that there is no special
need of his services, but that your wife, good,
anxious soul that she is, urged it, and you consented to gratify her. He looks at you closely,
1N THINKS ABOUT. 185
hears your explanation, nods his head quietly,
prepares his prescriptions, gives his directions,
and departs. Another weary day, another weary
night passes. You begin to feel that you are
really sick. There is a fire burning in your
veins; there is a weight upon brain and heart,
such as you never before felt. Again the physician comes, and as he looks at you, you fancy
that you see a shadow rest for a moment on
his face; but you look again, and see nothing
but his usual quiet smile. He gives directions,
a little peremptorily you think, and once more
leaves you. The weary days and nights go on,
and you are conscious that your strength is
failing, and the disease is gaining ground. Your
intimate friend calls to see you, and offers to
come and sit up with you at night. You see
no necessity for it, and are about to tell him
so, but before you have uttered the word, your
wife accepts the proffer, and you make no objection. He comes, according to promise, and
you are surprised to.see how gently and tenderly he waits upon you, and how noiselessly
he moves. But you miss one thing; his face
is a great deal too thoughtful, and hle seems
to have lost all his love of humor. What can
be the matter with him? The next night there
are two watchers. You have long known them
both, but you never before saw them so silent.
While you are lying with your eyes partially
closed, they think that you are sleeping, and
you hear them whisper together, and one of
them looks over toward you, shakes his head
sadly, and sighs. What can it all mean? You
hear the clock strike three. Your wife comes
in as noiselessly as a shadow. She looks at
you for a few moments in the dim light, and
then all three whisper together. She goes out
again, and you fancy that you hear, through
the partition that divides your room from another, sounds like some one weeping. You
rouse up, and inquire what the matter iswhether any thing has happened to the children. They reply that the children are all
well; but they evidently wish you not to ask
questions. And still the weary days and weary
nights come and go. You feel that your
strength is waning every hour; your voice is
feeble, and sounds strangely, so that you yourself hardly recognize it, and the least exertion
brings upon you such a faintness as you never
before experienced. Your wife's face grows
paler and sadder, and you see traces of tears
there every day. You inquire why the children do not come in to see you; and you are
told that your neighbor has offered to keep
them a day or two. You think that your neighbor's offer is a strange one —very kind. to be