ng through the rain-gushes, and in it one
whose boast it was that he was equal to 'either fortune.' Many have
heard of that man--many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I
have nothing to do with that man's after life--he fulfilled his
dukkeripen. 'A bad, violent man!' Softly, friend; when thou wouldst
speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy
own dukkeripen!

{picture:'That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.': page179.jpg}

CHAPTER XXVII

My father--Premature decay--The easy-chair--A few questions--So you told
me--A difficult language--They can it Haik--Misused
opportunities--Saul--Want of candour--Don't weep--Heaven forgive me--Dated
from Paris--I wish he were here--A father's reminiscences--Farewell to
vanities.

My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by
nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that,
at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of
almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always
endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices
which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be
that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his
retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a
considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he
was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till
then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally,
more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen
taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog,
who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he
improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this
manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great
apprehension with respect to my father's state being raised either in my
mother's breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at
which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father
experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion.

He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of
his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His
sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken
fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illn