The Last Three Years

As I was in Europe at the time our father’s health began to fail, my sister Sarah has supplied the following account:

“Our dear father had seemed all through the spring and early summer of 1874 to be somewhat broken in health. He suffered with gout in one of his feet, and would sometimes fall asleep at unusual times, when sitting in the family circle, and had seemed in many ways less inclined for exertion. His eyesight also was much affected. In the latter part of the 7th month he went with our mother to spend a few weeks at their cottage at Atlantic City, and while there would verv frequently go up to Philadelphia for the day, and return in the evening. Upon one of these occasions he went to sleep in the cars soon after leaving Camden in the afternoon, and slept soundly until he reached Egg Harbor. He was very much surprised on awaking to find that he had slept so long, and soon discovered that his right leg and foot were numb, as he supposed, with sleep. He was able, however, to walk from the depot in Atlantic Citv to his cottage, but he never for all the

303 remaining three years of his life entirely lost this sensation of numbness. Without speaking of it to him, some of us feared this might be a precursor of paralysis, and it was a great relief to me when in a few days our mother and himself came back to stay af The Cedars,” although neither of them thought at all of his being out of health. In about a week after their return, he was taken with a slight attack of indigestion, and remained in bed all the morning, and our mother sent for me. He slept a great deal, which seemed unnatural; but he roused so easily and seemed so entirely himself, that I thought perhaps it was the effect of some opiate administered by the doctor. He went down to dinner, and also to tea, but did not seem quite like himself, and the next day when he arose found that he could not shave himself. His speech also became affected, and it was evident to us all that he had had a slight stroke of paralysis. He was aware himself that some change had passed over him, and once, in the evening, when he could not get the right word to express what he wanted, but used one quite inappropriate, he smiled and said, “It is difficult for me to get hold of the right words now.” Afterwards, when I was alone in the room with him, he asked me what the doctors said was the matter with him. I told him they thought he had had a slight attack of paralysis, but believed he would soon be much better. He replied, ‘’ that is just what I thought was the matter.” At this time he lost the power to write his name. “My right hand has forgotten its cunning,” he would say, cheerfully, as he labored patiently, like a little child, to learn how to do it again. He succeeded in a few weeks, so that he was quite able to do it for all necessary purposes of signing, but he never again undertook anything more than this in the way of writing. During those first days of our anxiety, as well as always afterward, his own spirit seemed entirely unmoved. He used his powers to their full extent, and what was beyond them he quietly and patiently resigned into other hands, or left undone, and never one murmur or regret escaped his lips.

“In a few weeks he recovered so much from this attack as to be able to go with our mother down to Atlantic City again for a short stay, and I accompanied them. He seemed to strengthen rapidly in his favorite sea breezes, and it was with much anxiety we saw him begin to resume his old habits, and go out everywhere alone. I was obliged to leave before they were ready to return to ‘’ The Cedars,” and he waited on me to the cars with all his old kindness and courtesy, insisting on seeing me safely seated, while all the time I was in a fever of anxiety about him, especially when, his duty to me done, and wanting to cross the track, he climbed up on the end of a car and jumped down the other side. No accident happened, however, and for the next year he seemed almost as vigorous and hearty as ever, except an occasional slowness of motion or of speech.”

Upon my return from Europe, I saw but little change in him, and we thought perhaps he would be spared any recurrence of his trouble. But in the summer of 1875, while at “Idlemere,” he had another much more severe attack, when he was seriously ill for several days, and the whole of one side was paralyzed. The severity of this attack passed oflF in the course of a few weeks, and our parents were able to return to “The Cedars,” and in course of time to their city home.

But from this time, his life was more or less an invalid one. He recovered his health sufficiently during the winter of 1875-6 to carry on his duties at his Mission school in St. Mary’s Street, and also was able to go down daily to the office of the Executors of the Jayne estate, in Chestnut Street, near Sixth, and sign the necessary checks, and consult with the agent there. But the old energy and vigor were gone, and he needed a stronger arm to lean on whenever he went out. It was my privilege during these last years of his life to wait on him a great deal, both to the office and to his school; and the sweet, merry, happy walks and rides we had together will always be among the dearest memories of my life. He had certain jokes about the names on the signs we rode past in the street-cars, which he often repeated, and always seemed to enjoy afresh, as he would look at me with the old twinkle of fun, and bring out in his dear, slow voice, made slow by the effiscts of his disease, the same pun or pleasantry that we had enjoyed together the day before. There are corners and places on the route to and from his house and Sixth and Chestnut Streets, that I can never pass without a smile and a spring of inward happiness, because of these recollections. Our dear mother was very much afraid to have him go out, even with my help, on account of the lameness and slowness of his movements, caused by paralysis; and one of the things he especially enjoyed was the anticipation of her looks and words of alarm when he should tell her of some narrow escape he had had, or some threatened fall. He would always say, as soon as we had recovered ourselves, “Now, Han, thee must be sure not to tell the sweetest wife in all the world,” or something similar. And then when I would promise, he would begin to laugh, and pretty soon would say, “But I guess we will tell her, too, and see how frightened she will be.” And when we would at last safely reach home, and I would be leaving him to go into my own house, he would say with evidently a vivid anticipation of enjoyment, “Thee must come up stairs first and see what the dear 4iead- woman’ has to say to us.”

These things seem nothing to write, and they were nothing; but there was an indescribable charm about them that somehow makes every little incident of the kind a perfect delight to remember. I suppose it was because the old genial nature shone through it all. The spirit and heart were prisoned in an enfeebled body, and weakened powers of every kind; but they were unimpaired themselves, and we never felt it was our father who was sick and weak, but only the body in wdiich he lived. Month by month, and week by week, he seemed to grow in gentleness and sweetness, and in a lovely and loving acquiescence in his gradually increasing infirmities and weaknesses. And it was a most touching lesson to us all to see the strong man, who had been used to lead and command, and so capable of it also, now meekly and uticoraplainingly taking the place of a child, and consenting without a murmur, and apparently without any suffering from it, to be led, and guided, and cared for. His life-long principle of submission to the will of his Heavenly Father came into practical exercise now, and helped him, I am sure, into the perfect peace of all these last invalid years. He acquiesced in all the arrangements we made for him with scarcely a question or even the expression of a preference, and never failed to express his thanks for any attention paid him, even the most trifling. For two or three years some one or other of us used to go in and read out to him every evening, when not otherwise engaged, and he never failed, while able, to say at the end, “Thank thee, darling, for coming in to see us to-night.” For the most part, however, he said but little during these last years, always replying quaintly when we would ask him why he did not talk, that he only “thought the more.” And through it all, his mind, though working much more slowly, remained unimpaired, and his memory, when his interest on any subject was fairly aroused, seemed as good as ever. Especially was this true with regard to the Bible, or to any subject connected with the salvation of the Lord Jesus Christ; and to the last he could tell us where any text was to be found, if only we could succeed in making him understand what it was we wanted; and a reference to the Lord and His love would always call up a faint smile and a look of intelligent comprehension, when all other things failed to attract his attention.

For many, many years, the dear, hospitable family home in Filbert Street had received all the children and grand-children, from the oldest to the youngest, as welcome guests to a grand dinner-party on every New Year’s day. Sometimes as many as thirty-four would sit down at the long table, and the youngest baby who could walk would crown the entertainment, by toddling up and down on the table-cloth, after the dinner had been removed, from grandma to grandpa, and back again, between the anxious mothers and laughing fathers, and would receive an orange from dear grandma’s hands as the reward of the successful performance. The day would be spent in happy family intercourse, with mutual admirations by the different parents of our various children, and loving praises from grandpa and grandma for all. But the most precious part of these yearly gatherings was in the evening. Then the dear grand-parents took their seats at one end of the large parlors, and children and grand-children surrounding them, all would sit down together to wait upon the Lord, and to ask His blessing. We realized at these times with our beloved father the fulfillment of his so often quoted text, “Draw nigh unto God and He will draw nigh unto you;” and, under the overshadowing power and presence of the Holy Spirit, there was liberty for every one to pray or to speak, as they felt called. Our father rarely said much; but a few words, accompanied by his devout manner, revealed to even the youngest of the group that he felt himself and his family to be in the presence of the Lord. These little meetings were occasions long to be remembered. So deeply had our father impressed upon his descendants the belief that the way to prosper in everything was to seek the protecting care and guidance of our Heavenly Father, that we all used to feel sure a blessing could not fail to rest upon each one of us, parents, children, and grandchildren through the ensuing year, because of this hallowed entrance upon it.

The last three years of this happy family gathering, the grandchildren, who had grown older now, introduced a new feature. They united their money and bought some little gift for grandpa and grandma, and presented it all together, singing with it a presentation New Year’s song. They would all come in a train into the parlor where we would be gathered around the dear grandparents, the little ones first and then the older ones, and standing in tiers according to their sizes, they would sing their song, with hearts and voices full of fondest love.

The first of these souq-s was written for the New Year’s day of 1875, and was sung with the presentation of a warm fur robe for the carriage, which the four youngest grandchildren, Frankie Whitall, Willie Nicholson, and Nellie and Frankie Thomas carried in fi’ont of the group. It was written by one of the sons-in-law, and, like those of the succeeding years, was founded upon words and tunes familiar to the grandchildren, that it might bo easily sung. It was as follows:

We’re a band of cousins, we’re a band of cousins, We’re a band of cousins, and we greet thee, grandpa dear. We’re a band of cousins, we’re a band of cousins, We’re a band of cousins, and we wish a glad New Year!

Sallie, Whitall, Minnie, Bessie,

Johnny Whitall, Johnny Thomas, Tom and Harry, Bond and Saidee, Madgie N. and Madgic C.

Mary, Logan, Gracie, Alice,

Daisy, Kachel, Plelen, Willie, And two more to swell the chorus, Frank-a-lin and Frankie T.

Chorus: — We’re a band of cousins, &c.

Now we think our dearest grandpa

Is the very best of grandpas. And we count ourselves the grander for a grandpa such as lie;

So we here present a token,

Of the precious love we bear him. And are sure he will accept it from his grand posterity.

Chorus: — We’re a band of cousins, &c.

Many be the future New Years
That permit us thus to greet thee,

Full of years and full of honors, old age touch thee tenderly; But when time shall be no longer, And we’re gathered to our fathers,

May our ties be all the stronger in the heavenly land to be.

Chorus: — We’re a band of cousins, &c.

Here the chilling blasts of winter,

Make us prize a furry cover; That they visit thee less rouf-hly, we provide the gift we bring.

But to us a home is promised

Where we’ll need no such provision. Saint John saw it in his vision of the city of our King.

Chorus: — We’re a band of cousins, &c.

In 1876 the gift consisted of some beautiful flowers
for the conservatory, and the song this year was
written by one of the grand-daughters.

We all are here,

Grandparents dear,
Our warmest thanks to render;

As well we may,

This happy day, For love so true and tender. For love bo true, for love so true, for love so true and tender.

The banquet rare,

Is spread with care,
Rich blessings hang above us.

Our hearts are light,

With you in sight.

To know how well you love us.

To know how well, to know how well, to know how well you love us.

These blossoms sweet,

Are emblems meet,
Of prayers that you have given;

Like fragrance rare,

Upon the air.
Their incense floats to heaven.
Their incense floats, their incense floats, their incense floats to
heaven.

Though life may bear

Us from your care,
Temptations us surrounding,

These prayers will bring

A harvesting Almighty love abounding. Almighty love, Almighty love. Almighty love abounding.

Though we may roam,

Far, far from home.
The lessons gained beside you,

Of heavenly love.

Will point above To Jesus who doth guide you. To Jesus who, to Jesus who, to Jesus who doth guide you.

And oh! at last,

When life is past,
May we unite for ever.

Upon that shore,

Where death no more Our loving hearts shall sever. Oar loving hearts, our loving hearts, our loving hearts shall sever.

New Year’s day of 1877 was the last of these happy family gatherings in the dear old home. The gifts for this year were flowers again, and a warm pair of fur gloves for dear grandpa’s chilly hands. This song was written, as was the first, by one of the uncles.

Holding once more our New Year’s convention,
In this old spot of happiest mention,

Plailing the day, obeying the call,

Gaily we gather, one and all.

Chorus. — Glad again to greet thee, our grandpa;
Glad again to greet thee, our grandma;
Hailing the day, obeying the call.
Gaily we gather, one and all.

Revellers abroad are quafSng their potion;
Merry are others, after their notion;

None have such joy, obeying the call,

Glad as we cousins, one and all.

Chorus. — Glad again, &c.

Pour forth our hearts an honest libation;
None are so free from any privation;

Blest on all hands, obeying the call,

Gather we hither, one and all.

Chorus. — Glad again, &c.

Such on this earth our happy condition,
May we not gain its fitting fruition —

After it fades, at Jesus’ sweet call,

Gather in heaven, one and all.

Chorus. — Glad again, &c.

Gather there, with grandpa and grandma.
Gather there, ascribing Hosanna!
Hailing the day obeying the call.
Gather in Heaven, one and all.

There were but few dry eyes in the room as this last song was sung. “VVe could- not but believe that before another year should come round, that dear grandpa, so evidently waiting to be gathered to his heavenly home, would be among us no more, and although we were assured the change would be to him all gain, yet for us, what a vacant place would be left!

We had found that sweet hymns of faith and hope often comforted and refreshed his spirit during the last few years of his life. He would listen attentively, with closed eyes, while the tears rolled down his serene face, as some of his grandchildren together sung them gently to him. This last evening the “Ninety and Nine,” and “Precious Promise God hath given,” which were both great favorites of his, were sung to him. First the tears fell, then came sobs, which he could not entirely repress, as he listened to the story of his Saviour’s love and faithfulness. As the last verse was

suno”

“When the shades of night are falling,
And the hour has come to die, — Hear thy trusty Pilot calling,

I will guide thee with mine eye,” — we were all deeply moved. We felt that the gates of
heaven were ajar, and that our precious father was indeed leaving us, at the call so long listened for, and that
his spirit had already entered upon some of the joys
of unseen things.

This was his last New Year’s on earth, and he was so feeble even then, that he was scarcely able to enter into the spirit of the occasion; but in his sweet, quiet, patient way, he seemed to enjoy the flow of family talk, and the merriment of the grandchildren, and was the beloved and honored centre of the happy group.

Daily, more and more, his strength failed and he became during the spring of 1877 very helpless in many ways, and evidently drawing near the end. Once when his daughter Sarah was sitting with him, he made an effort to rise from his chair. As she assisted him, she said, ‘Father, where does thee want to go?” He replied, ‘’I want to go ip,” and walked feebly to the window, where he stood for some time, looking heavenward. He seemed during all these latter months like one who had nothiner more to do on earth but to die.

He had fulfilled his duties in all the relations of life, more perfectly than most men are able to, and had gone to the limit of his capacity for doing, and now, with a completed life, he was only waiting for the laying off of the garment of flesh, that his freed spirit might take its flight to its eternal home. We seemed already to have to call him hack from somewhere if we wanted him. And yet, every now and then, the old sweet playfulness would gleam out for a moment, and he would repeat slowly and with difficulty one of the dear old cheery speeches. One day he made us all laugh with his unexpected humor, when we thought him too ill to take much notice of anything. He had been sleeping heavily in his chair, and was suddenly awakened by some one leaving the room. A remark was made about his receiving kisses from his grand-daughters Immediately he opened his eyes, and noticing two of his grown-up grandchildren in the room, one a grandson and the other a grand-daughter, said to his grandson, with all the old curves of fun comino; back to his face for the moment, “Tom, I will make thee my proxy for kissing the girls after this,” and evidently enjoyed Tom’s blushes and embarrassment. At other times, rousing himself to unwonted exertion when some member of his family was leaving him, he would, in his old affectionate manner, bestow a parting greeting; and in several cases, these loving words individually addressed, proved to be last farewells. The last time he ever spoke to his daughter Sarah was upon one of these occasions, when, after she had kissed him, as his eyes followed her to the door of the room, he said, “Farewell, dear daughter,” and so to his son James and some others of his family; and although but little matters to record, yet they linger with sacred sweetness in the memory.

He much enjoyed at this time to hear reading, either from the Bible or from the writings of Fenelon, and although a casual observer would have thought he was not in the least listening, yet the inner man was alive to spiritual things. Once when one of his daughters was reading to him from Fenelon — that copy he so valued as beinor the Q-ift of his mother to his elder brother in his youth — she thought it hardly worth while to continue, as it seemed as if his thoughts were far away, when, to her great surprise, he interrupted her to remark upon a sentence she had just read in regard to the theory of holiness without the practice — speaking of it as something to be deprecated.

These times are very precious in our memory; there is not much of incident to relate about them, but there is much to be remembered. Children and grandchildren have engraven upon their minds the picture of this beloved one, as he sat patiently in his large chair, his placid countenance lighting up with a loving smile in response to their affectionate greetings. And no less vivid is the impression of the sweetness of his spirit — once so strong to lean upon — now in trustful and childlike confidence, yielding submissively to the wishes and suggestions of others.

In the latter part of the 5th month, our mother and the physician thought perhaps it might be a benefit to him to go to the sea-shore, and, with some difficulty, he was taken to their Atlantic City cottage. His cheerful patience through the flitiguing exertion involved in the journey was remarkable. He laughed at his own seeming awkwardness in getting into the carriage, and by his sweet and playful submission to all inconveniences, made what might have been a very trying occasion, something very pleasant to be remembered. But he was too ill to be benefited by any change of air, and visibly drooped from day to day. He used to walk, with assistance, out upon the second-story verandah, and sit in the warm sun, and seemed to enjoy the fresh air, or would go to the window and stand looking for a long while upon the sea. We were always very cheerful while with him, engaging in conversation, which we had reason to believe he was cognizant of, although he took no part in it, and generally looked as if his thoughts were far away. Several times, however, we were surprised at the readiness with which he replied to a question in matters that one would have supposed had entirely passed from his mind. Once when the conversation turned upon Fenelon’s tutorship of one of the young French princes, none of those speaking remembered his name, and our mother addressing him, said, “what wfis it, father?” He replied without taking a moment of thought, “the Duke of Burgundy,” thus manifesting that he had followed the conversation. At another time, our mother quoted a line of one of E-utherford’s hymns, but having forgotten it, could not give the next line, when, with all his old promptness and energy, he quoted the two following additional lines necessary to make the quotation complete:

“E’en Anworth was not heaven — E’en preaching was not Christ.”

At another time, during the last week or two of his stay on earth, one of his children quoted to him one of his favorite texts, “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty,” and asked him if he was not now realizing the truth of this blessed promise. With a look of loving trust and thanksgiving, he simply answered ‘’Yes.’’

The difficulty of speaking prevented further expression; but it was not needed. He* had not waited until then to testify to his Saviour’s love and mercy, and Ave felt indeed, that all such questions were almost superfluous, after the more than fifty years of such unwavering trust and loyalty.

We all made frequent trips to Atlantic City, but he
did not take much notice of our coming or going,
and on the 11th of the Gth month, the doctor informed
those of the family who were with him, that the rest
had better be telegraphed for, as he could not last
long.

His daughter Sarah writes: ‘’ When we arrived, our precious father was too near the opening gates of heaven for any earthly call to awaken a response. We. watched beside him hour after hour as his spirit freed itself from earth, and the sweetness and solemnity that pervaded the room made it seem indeed like the very entrance to immortal bliss. We knew he had been long waiting for his ‘Pilot ’ to bear him through the ’ dark water,’ as he wrote in 1860; and now that the time had come, although our hearts were sore with grief, yet we rejoiced with him that so soon he would join that ’ bright throng;’ and we felt sure that the lines he had then written:

No works do I boast of, no worth of my own;

In Jesus, my Saviour, in His name alone,

I boldly press forward to join the bright throng,

would have been the expression of his feelings if he had possessed the power of thought and utterance. Towards midnight Ills breathing grew softer and softer, and not a sound disturbed the stillness but the gentle breaking of the surf upon the beach, heard through the open window. At a few minutes past midnight, early in the morning of 6th month, 12th, 1877, as gently as a little child falling asleep in loving arms, did the spirit of our precious father pass from earth to heaven, and as we reverently believe, receive the glad welcome, ‘Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.’”

The earthly tabernacle of our beloved father was committed to the earth on the 15th of 6th mo., 1877. It was thought best to have the gathering of friends in the Twelfth Street meeting-house, as his dwelling-house had been closed for the summer, and also in order that the scholars from his St. Mary’s Street Mission school might have an opportunity of attending. It was a large and very solemn meeting, and the testimonies of many present, as to the blessings received through the ministrations of our father, were full of the deepest interest to the loved ones he had left behind. It hardly seemed like a sorrowful occasion, so aware were we all of the triumphant entry that had been granted him into the presence of the Lord, whom he had for so many years trusted and sought to follow. Even through our tears we could rejoice in his joy, and could praise the grace that had redeemed our loved one from all evil.

The sacred duty of carrying their grandpa’s coffin devolved upon his six oldest grandsons. Many hearts were touched at the sight, and many prayers ascended that his mantle of holy love and faith might fall upon his descendants. He was buried in Friends’ South-western Burial-ground, in a lot he had himself purchased as the family resting-place.

It is not the Friends’ way to erect costly monuments to their dead, xlnd we trust that our father’s monument will be found in the noble, and true, and Christ-like lives of his grandchildren, for whom his heart yearned so tenderly, and who cannot, we feel, do better than to walk in his footsteps, and follow him as he followed Christ.