The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1893-12-02
TENNYSON'S DEATH BED.
Sir Andrew CIart<'s Graphic Descrip-
ton of the Closing Scene.
Gazette.

westminster Gazette.
Lord Tennyson was dead: from Hasle,
death-bed scene had been of unearthly
beauty, and that Sir Andrew, who had
through the whole of the last day and
night, was on his way back to London.
When L stepped out of my hanson at his
door Sir Andrew drove up from the oppo-
site direction. He could not see patients
just then the servant told me very polite
~. 1 wasn't a patient 1 replied and gave
editor. And then l was told Sir Andrew
would see me presently. | had to wait
full of apologies and ready to listen to my
requests. Come along into my den;~ ne
SSidi v1 iIEe f f6 6Siiige Il v om e elred; o your
editor is my editor, for yours Is the only
evening paper I read regularly" This, by
the way. was in, the last days of the form
zette.
IAN now listen and 1 will tell you
had settled in the famous consulting room.
A reddish light from the fire lit up the
the perfect silence of the house Sir An
drew's account of that most wonderful of
death beds was almost as a story from
another world. He looked very sad as he
was sitting in front of his bureau, inces-
sanity twisting a pencil between his I'm,
g geis then g9i looked o frow niG;iT" at me and said:
ID you know what you are asking? You
are asking me to do what in the medical
profession Is COnSlUeIel al awful DIelC
of etiquette" And then he got up, and in
bitter disappointment l rose to go. with
only sufficient courage left to say that
certainly if this was, so L was sincerely
sorry. In one second the frOwn turned
into a genial smile. and with his hand on
my shoulder he said, sit still. 1 don't
mind committing a breach Of etiquette
this time, but you must promise me faith
fully not to mention my name as that of
Keep my name out and then tell the
world what / tell you, SO far as words can
tell such th b of that nit, glorious GU t death uifh
glowing emotion, with a voice that rose and
fell, and often grew husky and unsteady,
he told me of the last watch by the bed
side of the poet. II have stood by the bed
sides of thousands of fellow-creatures." he
death-bed scenes, but never, never one like
that from which / have just come home"
Sir Andrew, when he grew animated, had a
strange magnetic power over his hearers
/ have heard others, students, medical men
and private friends of his often observe
this-and 1 sat In speii-pound silence as ne
of the autumn storms and rain, dawned over
the world as the poet lay on his death-bed.
One sentence l of the description
which ne then gave me. 9TH distant hills,
shrOuded in mists of perfect white, could be
where Tennyson lay like a piece of breath
ing marble" He went on to describe the
night flooded with moonlight, the perfect
Shakespeare, and latter that the dark"
and then he rose again, and walked up and
DOWN the room. 4 also rose 10 go.
"Sit still" he Numbered, suddenly. shall
1 tell you why Tennyson's death was SO
peaceful? This is not 10 be put into the
papers to-day. Probably it would not inter-
est them to-day. But the secret is this: He
lived a quiet, laborious. simple life. 1t is a
secret which few men learn in time to profit
by it. L was his friend before L was his
physician. Metaphysics drew us together.
Gladstone, too, is deeply interested in that
subject, and we all three agreed in our taste
for a simple life and a life of work.
Hal the disease OF the generation is
due to peoples idleness. Idleness. the be-
ginning of all evil. The mother of a PAM
pered darling OF a daughter sends to me.
The girl ails. no one knows why. / am
to come and prescribe. | know before 1 go
what is the matter with the girl Co to
your local medical man. ! say. he can
manage the case very WELL But no, it
must be Sir Andrew, the grumpy Scot, and
Sir Andrew prescribes long walks and less
rich food, and regular meals and early
hours; And presently. when the yeung
spirits, they think l have performed a Won
derful cure.
Now let me tell you how / myself have
managed to live at all. L am sixty-six.
over thirty years ago, when 1 was a young
and obscure Scotch practitioner in London,
of the London Hospital The authorities
there said: oh, let us give the poor chap
a chance. He is consumptive; he won't
post Well. 1 have outIived nearly every
one of them. All my life 1 have been deli
cate; | have several times been at deaths
OCCAs p0N ~ CGSOA VI IL oAAAIAC III dlll ii
life of work. l have managed to get very
close TO threescore years and ten"
L got up once more to take my leave.
'Sit STILL" he commanded once more, as he
put on his glasses and a professional air.
And so you are one of those ladies who
write? They tell me all the younger gem
Grafton of women write and smoke. Do
you smoke?" with q terrible emphasis on
the personal pronoun) No, Sir Andrew. I
don't" You don't smoke? Look here, let
me tell you one thing. Don't. Don'tt' /
took my leave. and jumped into my han
som; but l was recalled. Come back.
Make haste! Young woman. come back this
momentl'' Sir Andrew called after me.
and showed me again into his room. II
only want TO tell you one thing. If you
breathe my name in connection with what
/ have told you. Tll-IH haunt you. Now
shake hands. and forgive a garrulous old
man for keeping you 50 long"
/ never mentioned Sir Andrews name at
the time in connection with the informa-
ton. He sent his well done,' down to
me when he saw my article. and that was
the last / heard directly from him. But IL
the threat OF haunting me for revealing
who was our informant about Tennyson's
0eathbed scene was meant TO be indefinite,
~then-but / do not think Sir Andrew went
! so far in his prohibition.