Chapter XX: Last Journey and Death

It will be remembered that Dr. Elmslie brought on a rather serious illness in Edinburgh, by too close application to his desk, when preparing his vocabulary. He had not _fully_ recovered his wonted energy when he left this country for Kashmir; but, as he had been steadily improving, it was confidently believed that the sea voyage would completely re-establish his health. On meeting him in India, Mr. Clark noticed that his step was not so elastic as formerly; and, on his way to Srinagar, Mrs. Elmslie remarked, especially at Murree, that Dr. E. was breathless and weak. It has already appeared from the narrative that during the whole season he was not at all strong. His work was overwhelming truly, and to his own many duties were added the labours and anxieties connected with an outbreak of cholera. He was saddened too by the heartlessness and tyranny of those in power, and by the slanders of the Baboos, to whom his life was a daily rebuke. At the close of the season he was quite prostrate, and instead of entering on a journey fitted to try even the robust, he needed rest and nursing. But he was obliged to leave. The detailed account of the sad journey written by Mrs. E. is before us. We trust we may be guided in making such a selection as shall satisfy his many loving friends, without unduly obtruding on the sanctity of these sacred letters. Before starting, Dr. E. got a chill while waiting in a cold day in the fireless, windowless chamber of a native gentleman. Next day he had to walk in the rain a long way to see a dying man. This, also, was hurtful to him. The day after they were cheered by the arrival of home letters. The account of the Perth Conference by Miss –– was particularly interesting. "I said to him," writes Mrs. E., "that much of the experience mentioned–the love for Jesus and joy in Him–was far beyond what I knew. He drew me near to him, and said, Why mourn! Let us ask and receive that our joy may be full, and he forthwith poured out his heart in prayer to God." On Sunday, they took their last walk in Srinagar, but Dr. Elmslie, on reaching home, was so exhausted he needed a little brandy. In the evening at worship, contrary to custom, he chose the hymns, selecting, "One is kind above all others," and spoke afterwards very earnestly to the Pundits and Moonshees present. On Monday, Mrs. E. suggested that he should delay his journey, but he longed to be off, saying he would be better when fairly on the way. As they sailed down the river, crowds of people ran along the banks to pour out their thanks and say farewell.

Leaving Islamabad on the 25th, Dr. E. said, cheerily, "I'm glad to tell you the liver is in better order to-day;" but the journey was fatiguing, and he consented to take the dandy by turns with Mrs. E., and so they reached Mohumpoora. "Next day we went together to see Carrie (the wife of one of his assistants) and her newly-born infant, lying in a shed. So like the accounts of the babe at Bethlehem it seemed that we were both struck by it, and went away speaking of Jesus in that low estate,–being rich, yet for our sakes becoming poor. He insisted on my using the dandy, but after a little I got out, and sent it back for him. He said, on our meeting again, 'I could not have walked another step.' The dandy men always trot, so that it was to my great distress impossible to keep beside him. On reaching Shupeyon, I found him lying on the bed in the wretched bungalow, and he asked me to get a poultice at once." Various remedies were applied, and he felt much relieved, and wished the epistle to the Philippians read to him. "We read, too, Mrs. Gordon's book on _Work_. He was much interested in it, and then came the last chapter on 'For Ever.' He spoke about heaven; about the joy of eternity being in knowing Jesus and being with Him,–of his confidence that the emancipated, glorified spirit should still have work to do." The night following the breathing was greatly oppressed and the palpitation of the heart very distressing. "That was my first warning," writes Mrs. E.; "an awful night, but he assured me still the liver was the member at fault." After the use of appropriate remedies, he got relief, and slept comparatively well; and next day was again on the march. "Every march is sixteen miles, and all are more or less dangerous and difficult. Indeed, no one who has not crossed the Pir Panjal can have any idea of the awful precipices one has to climb, the roads being mere cuttings, hardly broad enough to walk upon, along the sides of mountains rising sheer up to the height of 12,000 feet. Our next resting-place was Haripur. There he was tired, but not breathless. Next day the march was nearly twenty miles up–up to the snows and ice. We started at eight, and did not reach the old bungalow near the height of the pass till nearly six o'clock. My darling was very vexed about my walking all the way, but I hardly felt tired, so eagerly anxious I was about him,–the air, too, was bracing, and I had slept well. There we had a room, where was a good fireplace, and we kept up a glowing fire of logs. He was very breathless again, and complained much of pain in the back." Suitable remedies were administered, and Mrs. E. sat up all night watching him and looking after the fire. He awoke better, and said it was only natural he should suffer from the great rarity of the air at such a height (11,900 feet). "We went on next day over the snows. He never walked now. Many, many a time, as I turned a corner, and saw the bearers carrying him over the brink of such awful abysses, my heart stood still with horror, and I could only cry to God to strengthen them. Once a man slipped his foot, but mercifully the path was just at that place a little wider. However, it distressed us both very much, for my darling was in a terribly nervous state, and such a perilous mode of travelling, over places where the missing of a foot must have caused death, was a great, great trial. Sixteen miles brought us to Poohiana, and there William insisted on the bearers keeping a slow pace in case of losing sight of me, as there were many tracks of bears, and one large black one was quite near us. At Poohiana the bungalow was a mere stable, without windows or opening of any kind except the door. He wakened breathless; four pillows were not high enough, and he lay on my shoulder and slept again. He suffered more or less from diarrhœa all the way, and next day was very weak. We reached Baramula on the first November, and proposed resting over Saturday and Sabbath. That was my second night of preparation. I laid my hand on his heart, the beating of which, in irregular thumps, seemed for a few minutes to be heard all through the tent. Those were dreary nights, and in the tent we felt it cold and windy. I fastened plaids and travelling rugs all round to keep out the wind. The servants were tired, and slept sound. Next day we came to Rajaori. He suffered from rheumatism very much, but sent back the dandy for me several times, and tried to walk, for I was very tired." Here there was a dilapidated palace, the only habitable room in which had neither door nor window, but two great openings, and it was agreed to try the tents. A thunder storm drove them from the tent to seek shelter in the building; a large straw-door was made, and the wax-cloth covering of the bedding was placed over the window. He slept pretty well, but next day never offered to rise. Mrs. E. read to him chapter after chapter of the Gospels. He always said, "Read some of Jesus' words–His own words."

Mrs. E. remarked that God must have some great purpose in trying them so much. "Yes," he replied; "I know what He means to teach me. I have sore need of patience." Mrs. E. said how gladly she would suffer for him, but he looked at her with a strange wistful gaze, and said, "Ah, but you can't be my Simon, the Cyrenian. I must bear my own cross." Only eight days' journey further, and then the crown.

One of the little beds was moved into the verandah of the old bungalow, and there he lay for some hours on Sabbath the 9th November. When Mrs. E. was reading aloud to him, he interrupted her, "Ah, darling, how little we remember that we have only one life! Surely we should use them very differently if we thought of that more–_one life here_–so much to be done, and so little accomplished." He found it an easy position to kneel and lean forward, and he would remain a long time in that position. But again they must move on. The dandy, with pillows, could be made pretty comfortable, and he seemed easier when moving. They held straight for Goojerat. Every morning forty coolies gathered, talking, shouting, quarrelling over the luggage, &c., and nothing would induce them to be quiet. The next march was very long to Nowshera, and the bearers let the dandy fall one time. The following night was a restless one, and the supply of candles failed. As Mrs. E. was nearly exhausted with sorrow, travelling, and want of sleep, Dr. Elmslie insisted on her taking the dandy, and sending it back for him. "The next was our last march, a very long one, very rough, and the bearers were not good, and somehow I could not make the pillows suit the wearied frame. How much of agony there was in this constant journeying to him in body, and to me in spirit! Many a time I cried aloud, and made the rocks and mountains echo with my sorrow, when he was carried on out of sight and hearing." When he reached the first stage, his energies were all but at an end. On arriving at Bhimbar, as the tent was not ready, the bedding was laid on a charpae, and he lay down. "How thankful I am," said Mrs. E., "that we are safely here." "Ah, yes, safely, so far as our limbs are concerned–no broken legs or arms, but I feel there is something wrong _here_,"–and Dr. Elmslie put his hand on his chest. He was much worse. After going to bed, the pain became unbearable, and he cried, "I cannot stand this pain and sleeplessness any longer!" A dose of morphia was administered, and he got a little sleep. They were still thirty miles from Goojerat, and it became an anxious question if he could ever reach it. The dhoolie was made soft and comfortable,–they had scarcely started when he became very ill. "My bearers would not keep me alongside of his dhoolie, and I used to leap from the dandy and fly to his side just to see him, and then shocked, terrified, go back again, feeling like Hagar in the wilderness, and crying to the Lord to send help lest William should die." A special messenger despatched to Goojerat brought the civil surgeon to the place where they rested for the night, and he whispered hope. As the doctor drove out, he met Mr. Perkins, the new commissioner for Goojerat, and handed him Mrs. E.'s note, so that when the sufferers reached the bungalow, Mr. and Mrs. Perkins appeared, and did everything that Christian love and sympathy could suggest. Cheered by these friends of Jesus, with a doctor at hand, and everything necessary for the invalid now easily procurable, hope revived for a brief space, but the disease steadily progressed, and on the evening of the 18th November, Dr. Elmslie quietly fell asleep in Jesus.

"I gazed once more," writes Mr. Clark, "on his well-known features as he lay peaceably in his coffin. There was an expression of repose on his face,–there was even a smile, the smile of rest and victory; and we laid him there to rest on the battlefield, where the whole Punjaub had been won by English arms; and there he quietly sleeps awaiting the resurrection of the dead."

"I HAVE FOUGHT A GOOD FIGHT, I HAVE FINISHED MY COURSE, I HAVE KEPT THE FAITH: HENCEFORTH THERE IS LAID UP FOR ME A CROWN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS WHICH THE LORD, THE RIGHTEOUS JUDGE, SHALL GIVE ME AT THAT DAY."