I am wholly inadequate, without divine assistance. Oh !
may that assistance be aflorded ! 1 cannot say that your
last letter had prepared me for this; although for years
I have never opened a letter without deeming that such
information might be contained in it. Friends here are
all kindness.
Your affectionate, and,
he hopes, dutiful son,
W. F. DURANT.
" He appears to have begun," soon after this, and
" at the time when his own illness was coming on, to com-
pose a hymn on her death. The tw« following verses
were found in his desk, recently written on a slip of
paper. The encroachments of his own disease prevent-
ed his either re-touching them, or adding more. I give
them in their first beautiful and touching simplicity.
They show the bearing of his mind, and might be ap-
propriately inscribed on his own early tomb: —
300
Though to-night the seed be sown in gloom,
Amid darkness, (and) tears, and sorrow,
It shall spring from the tomb, in immortal bloom,
On the bright and glorious morrow.
The tears that we shed o''er holy dust
Are the tribute of human sadness ;
But the grave holds in trust the remains of the just,
Till the day of eternal gladness." *
Before his letter arrived, I wrote to him again, im-
mediately on returning from the funeral of his aunt ;
and I venture to give this epistle — though hastily writ-
ten — both because he wrote an imperfect answer to it ;
and as a fresh proof of our mutual confidence.
Poole, Saturday, Twelve o'clock.
My dearest, dearest Treasure,
I AM now, indeed, alone — literally alone— -
for your cousins and friends are gone away. To say, I
am unhappy^ would be wrong ; for I really am not so ;
but I feel most deeply and tenderly — and the more so,
from having just seen the coffin of your dear, dear moth-
er. I have all the consolation, on this occasion, wliich
the most affectionate sympathy of friends can afford —
and, I hope, even better consolation still. My reason
and my christian principles have come in to my aid ;
and I see how much mercy there has been, and still is,
in the dispensation. That she was spared to provide
for your last journey to Glasgow : and that there was
* Funeral Sermon.
301
such a temporary revival as to enable you to go off ia
comfort, are blessings not to be forgotten. And now,
that I calmly look upon her past sufferings — and suffer-
ings whicli she must still have endured, had she lived
— I cannot indulge the selfishness of wishing her back.
Yet, diseased as she was — full as she was of pain and
lassitude — she did most materially contribute to our
comfort. To me, in your absence, she was always an
interesting object connected with my home — and to re-
turn was always pleasant to me, as my presence ever
afforded pleasure to her. Indeed, my dear, it is cause
of unfeigned thankfulness, that, through the divine good-
ness, we were enabled so greatly to alleviaie her sor-
rows, and to make existence, — afflicted as she was —
still a desirable good to her. After shedding our tears
over her, our great business is, to consider the right
improvement of the event. Could your dear mother
and aunt now revisit and advise, I am sure they would
enjoin upon us increased circumspection, devotedness
and zeal. We have seen — alas ! we have seen* — their
distinguished excellencies. This fresh death has pro-
duced many an — " Ah ! Poole has scarcely ever seen
two such sisters ! What institutions were there, when
they came among us ? And what institutions now among
us did not owe their origin, or a large portion of their
eiliciency to them?" — This usefulness was not effected
ivithout considerable pcuniary sacrifices : but shall
* I alluded in (Iiis (o flie Roman use of the perfect tense, as
" riarerun/," they have lived ; — a delicate mode of announcing
the death of their friends.
25*
302
you or I complain that we have so much less, iu conse-
quence ?
I intend to preach to-morrow morning and evening;
and in the afternoon, I have numerous baptisms. My
friends, who can little tell the real state of my mind, —
wish me not to undertake so much ; but the truth is, I
must be engaged ; I must have an object that will, of
necessity, call off my attention. I mean to have no
spare time ; but to do as I did on your dear mother's
removal. This, while calculated to do myself good, is,
I am convinced, what the dear departed, if they could
but communicate their wishes, would enjoin upon me.
I am the last man to imagine, that the withdrawment
of so much excellence from my family and my circle of
useful friends, should induce me to slothfulness, and to
the neglect of duties which I ought, under any circum-
stances, to discharge. I trust your dear mother's re-
moval neither diminished my wish to do good, nor has,
in fact, lessened my usefulness. May you, my dear Wil-
liam, become increasingly earnest in pursuing *' the
mark of the prize of your high calling !" Oh ! with
what different feelings should we lament ungodly^ — or
even inactive and useless friends ! May our surviving
friends have, at least, as much relief at our graves, as
we have had at the graves of those over whom we now
weep !
When your beloved mother left us, 1 instantly saw
what your aunt must feel in the contemplation of a pos-
sible, and not improbable event. As the feeling must
have been a dreadful aggravation of her loss in dear Re-
becca, I hastened, you may recollect, to assure her, on
303
the next morning, that nolhing but death should part us.
It was ever after a consolation to me, that I had given
her this prompt and quieting assurance. It is equally
impossible but that some feeling, not altogether dissimi-
lar, should, on the present occasion, arise in your mind.
Let this, my beloved, satisfy you : / will never move in
any direction^ raithout first consulting you, and never pro-
ceed a step without your concurrence. You know my
integrity, and my affection for you too well to ask for
any other pledge of my regard to your happiness. 1
have never found your opinion or advice wrong, on any
question of prudence; and this, independently of my af-
fection for you, and my general confidence in you, will
induce me to consult you in every thing of importance.
Lord Chatham wrote to his son William, " I know, at
least, one beardless man at College." And 1 bless God
that 1 know one man of full understanding and consum-
mate prudence, under nineteen, at Glasgow. May my
future conduct prove me worthy of such a man for my
son !"
To this letter, he had attempted, at the commence-
ment of his illness, to prepare an answer. " It was writ-
ten at intervals under oppressive languor, which, to all
who know the nature of his distemper, even in its in-
cipient stages, will at once account for the absence of
that correct and easy elegance by which his composi-
tions were usually characterized." A letter from Dr
Wardlaw, shows why it was not sent. As the last thing
he ever wrote, it possesses an interest which parents
can in some measure, understand. It will ever be pre-
served by me as a precious relic •, though it is written
304
with a confusedness and imperfection that renders it al-
most illegible.
My dearest, dearest Father,
Every loss I endure seems, by concentrat-
ing-, to strengthen the affections ; and, as my circle
contracts, I fix myself more and more on you. You
have my entire confidence and gratitude. My dear
aunt had my warmest affections. She, however, is
gone ; and, we may confidently add, gone to glory.
Never-ending felicity will now attend her. Neither
nights nor days of sorrow, but an eternal day of felicity
and glory. This is, indeed, sufficient to dissipate the
gloom of the separation, and to obliterate even from
our minds those past sufferings, which have terminated
in an exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Oh ! may
we be enabled — especially may / be enabled — for I
know that you are pressing forward to the heavenly
gate — may 1 be enabled to walk in the footsteps of the
holy dead, and, not looking at the things of this life, to
press towards those which are before, and thus to make
my calling and election sure ! What a blessing is it to
look back on a life spent entirely in the service of God !
Our dear friends have doubtless had the common fail-
ings of humanity : have needed the pardoning blood of
Jesus ; and have been saved by firm confidence in the
great Mediator. Yet in the whole course of their Jives,
they at least sincerely professed the name of Jesus.
We do not, 1 believe, know a single important action in
which they have deviated from the straight and narrow
305
path. My dear aunt did not possess the very brilliant
talents by which my beloved mother was so highly dis-
tinguished. She had, however, sound and vigorous
sense, and a heart eminently devoted to her God. My
mother and yourself excepted, there never was a hu-
man being for whom I felt so much tender atJ'ection as
for her. She is gone, however, to her rest, and I would
not recal her. To weep is inevitable : but we ought
not to weep as those who are without hope. With re-
gard to your generous declaration, I have only to say
that I will never stand in the way of your happiness,
which is synonymous with my oww." — The very last
sentence he wrote to me ! ! — And ever shall 1 reflect
upon it, with that mournful pleasure which such a de-
claration, from one whose heart was all sincerity, is cal-
culated, in my circumstances, to inspire ! Our ardent
affection was mutual ; never had been, and if God had
spared him, never, I trust, would have been, cooled by
a single suspicion !
There is reason now to believe, that the fatal and
insidious disease which terminated his mortal existence,
had commenced before he left home. He complained,
I understand, of some peculiar, indescribable sensations
in his head, during the whole of his journey from Poole
to Birmingham. They continued, it is probable, after-
wards; but, as they were unattended with pain, they
appear to have excited no apprehensions ; for he never
mentioned them to his friends at Glasgow. Indeed, he
spoke of them, at Birmingham, only in a jocular man-
ner. But the shock produced by the intelligence of his
306
aunt's death, gave a dreadful activity to the seeds of
his disorder.
The fatal Tuesday (November 27) arrived, on which
I had reason to expect my accustomed and cheering*
communication from Scotland. Once before — and only
once — for the three preceding winters, a letter, from
having been mis-sent, had come a day later than usual.
I supposed it might have been so at this time ; for his
letter did not come. Little could I imagine that on that
very day he left me forever ! I had, on that day, writ-
ten in anticipation of hearing from him ; and commenc-
ed by saying, " I had expected to hear to-day from you.
Perhaps, you misconceived the meaning of my request,
and wait to hear again from me before you write : or
you may have put your letter into the office on Friday;
— and, the post not going as rapidly as I imagined, I
may hear only by to-morrow. * * * Precious as a let-
ter from you would be, I shall not distress myself. * * *
I thank you, my love, for your affectionate and chris-
tian letter on the death of dear aunt ; but, before I
speak in reference to her, I will just answer, once for
all, the former part of your epistle. Had not cousin
John informed me of your intention, 1 should have been
surprised at its contents. I catmot, to this moment, ac-
count for it. I had deemed it so perfectly fixed that you
were to go to the ba7\ that I never expected to exchange
with you a syllable more on the subject. Had you, vol-
untarily, and on prmciple, chosen the ministry, I should
have been unspeakably delighted : but, in default of
this, I never contemplated any thing else than the bar.
I^et us, therefore, consider this, as fixed — reserving, at
307
any future time, the power of choosing the other pro-
fession, should you ever feel it your duty to preach the
gospel. You cannot but know that there is one para-
mount desire of my heart — one continued, ardent prayer
of my soul — that you may, through life, maintain a con-
sistent, christian character ; and that, after adorning —
eminently adorning — ' the gospel of God your Saviour
in all things ;' we may meet, in a better world ; and
form — with the dear departed saints, to whom we owe
so much — portions of the whole family of heaven. I
mean, God willing, to enter you in January, at an Inn
of Court; to which you need not actually go for a year
or two. This will be quite early enough ; for I should
wish you to pursue your general studies for some time
longer. Lord Mansfield did not, I think, begin his legal
studies till twenty-four or twenty-five. Sir William
Jones even later. See — with all his legal lore and acu-
men — what a miserable figure poor Gilford cut, by the
side of his really and generally learned antagonists, on
the late trial ! You know Cicero''s fine description of
an orator — and how much, besides a knowledge of law
and legal antiquities, he conceives necessary to com-
plete one. 1 certainly wish you to excel — and, deduct-
ing the one third, as you wish, I am sure that, with all
the advantages you may yet enjoy, you have no bad
chance of excelling. I trust that God will make you a
blessing to the world. You will, then, I am sure, be
as happy as can be fairly expected in this vale of
tears."
I meant to have added, in a postscript, whatever
might have been necessary in answer to the letter which
308
I should — as I fondly expected — receive from hira on
the Wednesday. VVednesda}' arrived ; and, while felic-
itating myself on the prospect of a letter from him, the
postman brought me the following from Dr VVardlaw.
I was terrified at the sight of his hand, and my mind —
unaccustomed as it had ever been, and still is, to gloomy
anticipations — instantly felt, " It is the precursor of my
child's death."
Glasgow, November 23, 1821.
My very dear Sir,
I FEEL exceedingly that you should have
suffered any measure of paternal anxiety, which I know
you must have done for these two days past. Your
justly dear and valued William, towards whom our at-
tachment grows, the longer we know him, has been a
good deal unwell for these some days past. He had
written a letter nearly out the day before yesterday ;
which, however, having penned at our dining-room fire-
side, I found, on my coming home from my brother's
at night, he had inadvertently left out on going to bed.
I put it into my drawer; and, happening to go out ear-
ly nex:t morning, and being detained out by various busi-
nesses, it was too late for the post of yesterday, when F
came home. Upon looking at it again himself, he said
it was so ill written, he would not send it. To-dny I
hoped he might have been able to write another. But
1 must be his substitute, as he is, necessarily, confined
to his bed. The doctors, — one of whom saw him (he
309
night before last, and who then prescribed a little med-
icine for his cold, and for cleansing his bowels, and
bracing his stomach, and a gargle for his throat, which
was not inllamed, but relaxed — have seen him again
this morning, and have expressed a degree of appre-
hension of a tendency towards an affection of the head ;
to check which, in time, they have taken from him a
considerable quantity of blood, and prescribed a fresh
dose of aperient medicine.
I am well aware of the sensibility of a fathers
heart, and especially of the heart of a father situated
as you are towards such a son. I have always, howev-
er, held it as my maxim, on which 1 have ever wished
to be dealt with myself, that it is best to tell the precise
truth to friends at a distance. The medical men give
me hopes that the bleeding and other means mav prove
speedily effectual in checking and finally removing the
tendency 1 have mentioned. They will be back this
evening, and in the morning ; and you may be assured,
that no post shall pass without your hearing how he
continues. 1 trust 1 shall be able tomorrow to relieve
you from the anxiety which I know this letter must oc-
casion ; and which 1 most earnestly wish I could have
avoided giving you. Deeply do I regret the distance that
is between him and his fond father ; as I know what a
gratification it would be to you to tend him, and assist
in bringing him round to wonted health and strength.
You may depend on his being nwsed with all the
care and tenderness which real attachment to himself,
and parental sympathy with you can f)roduce. He is a
great favourite with us both ; — and my dear wife is an
26
310
excellent sick-nurse. I have been assisting at the tak-
ing of the blood and otherwise ; and it is Saturday.
Most faithfully, your's,
Ralph Wardlaw.
Great as was my alarm, I resolved to wait the issue
of another post. The following letter came, and deter-
mined my instant departure. " 1 am sorry I cannot re-
lieve you from anxiety. The report of this morning
was, — JVo better. The medical men have been here
twice to-day, and will be twice more. The symptoms
are decidedly paralytic. Oh ! my dear Sir, it does pain
my heart to tell you all this." I left home with but a
feeble ray of hope to irradiate the gloom produced by
my fears; but expected that, during the few hours of
my stay in London, I might get possession of another
letter from Glasgow on its passage towards Poole,
which would teach me what 1 had to expect. Dr Ward-
law, naturally calculating on my departure, had direct-
ed for my nephew, and though 1 saw that letter, and
could, almost at the risk of being committed to New-
gate, have torn it from the hand of the clerk, I was
obliged by the rigid laws of the post-oflfice, to let it pass
without the possibility of knowing its contents. This
greatly aggravated my pains ; and I proceeded to Man-
chester in the unutterable agonies of suspense — but,
311
there, met the more dreadful, and all but overwhelm-
ing, confirmation of my most alarming apprehensions.
1 dare not even attempt a description of my agony,—
feeling, myself for the first time completely destilule ! I
bless God for the preservation of my reason, which 1 se-
riously feared would sink under the pressure of my ac-
cumulated sorrows.
Never, never can I forget the dreadful journey
from Manchester to Glasgow — my feelings on approach-
ing that city, and on entering the house of my invalua-
ble friends, Dr and Mrs. Wardlaw. Parents themselves,
and feeling all but parental affection for my beloved
child, they bore with my weaknesses, wept with me,
and sustained me — nor can I ever, while affection shall
find a place in my heart, cease to feel towards them all
that is due to the tenderest and most unbounded kind-
ness. From them I learned all the melancholy partic-
ulars of the closing scenes ; but instead of attem[)ting
to describe them myself, I will extract the brief ac-
count given in Dr Wardlaw's Funeral Sermon, p. 24
-^28.
" Is there not, to the heart of an agonized parent,
feeling the dreary blank made in his society by the ab-
sence of such a son — is there not consolation, strong
consolation, in the thought that he has seen the object
of his love safe before him F — and may not this thought
impart peace and joy to his spirit, while he travels on-
ward the remainder of his pilgrimage ? Suppose he
had himself been first called away — could he, think you,
notwithstanding the delight infused into his departing
spirit by the conviction of that son's faith and piety and
312
stability of principle — could he have left him behind,
in a world abounding' with every variety of temptation,
without a secret pang of apprehension, without a feel-
ing of tender solicitude about his highest interests ? —
But, by the divine arrangement, every thing of this
kind is saved him. He can go through life, with the
delightful impression, the calm and settled conviction,
that the son of his heart's love, his dear, dear boy, is
safe and happy. And when he himself shall be called
away, instead of having to part from him, in that sol-
emn moment, with emotions of anxious trepidation, it
shall be one of the joys of his departure, that he is go-
ing to join his company, and to be with him for ever.
Thus he has a new interest in heaven ; and, in antici-
pating death, a new object of hope before him. Instead
of wailing, in all the bitterness of unmingled and unmit-
igated wo, like David, over a son that had not only died
— that had been little — but had died in unnatural and
impious rebellion against his father and his God — ' O
my •^on Absalom, my son, my son Absalom, would God
I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son !' — In-
stead of this, he can adopt the language of the same
royal mourner, when his infant child, for whom he had
fasted and prayed and wept, was taken from him — ' I
shall go to him, but he shall not return to me."
" Our dear departed friend and companion was not
one for whom we sorrow without hope. He was, as I
have before mentioned, a firm believer of that gospel
by which lil'e and incorruption have been brought to
light; and he felt and exemplified its sacred influence.
After the tidings arrived of the death of that dear rela-
313
tive who was removeJ so very recently before him,
and who had been to him as a second mother, his mind
was evidently drawn, with a peculiar degree of inter-
est and impression, to the contemplation of eternal
things. He conversed, with solemn pleasure, about
death and heaven. His mind was serious and spiritual.
It seems as if her departure had been purposely timed
to prepare him for his own ; and he was in a frame of
mind for dying, before the symptoms of approaching
death discovered themselves.
" During his short and rapid illnes?, the difficulty
and indistinctness of articulation, which was one of its
most affecting indications, rendered conversation im-
practicable. The testimony, consequently, of his faith
and hope, was, of necessity, brief and limited. The
questions which I felt it my duty to put to him in refer-
ence to his prospects for a future world when it be-
came too evident that he was approaching its confines,
were unavoidably, for the reason 1 have mentioned, so
framed as to require no more than a simple negative or
affirmative reply. In such circumstances we must be
satisfied with what we can obtain ; and all who knew
the perfect ingenuousness of his character will attach
to his answers the full credit of sincerity. — Standing by
his bed-side, I took him affectionately by the hand, and,
looking him in the face, repeated these words, 'This
is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners : — You
believe this saying ?'— I thought as I began to speak,
there was an attempt to restrain the nervous restless-
ness of the arm of which I held the hand, and that his
2G*
314
countenance assumed a gently pleased and interested
expression : — ' You believe this saying?' ' Yes.' — ' And
it is the ground of your hope before God?' 'Yes.' —
' Have you any fear of dying ?' ' No.' — ' I know whom
I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to
keep that which I have committed to him against that
day: — You enjoy this persuasion, I trust?' 'Yes.' —
' You remember David says, Yea, though I walk through
the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
for thou art vciih me. He could not have had a better
reason than this lor fearing no evil V ' No.' — ' And this
is the reason why j/o?< fear no evil?' 'Yes.' — 'When
God, in the bible, tells us not to tear, he always gives
us a good reason why we should not. Fear not : for I
am the tirst and the last, and the living one ; and I was
dead, and behold 1 am alive for evermore ; and have
the keys of hell and of death. Fear not, for 1 am with
thee ; be not dismayed, for I am thy God ; 1 will strength-
en thee ; yea, I will help thee : yea, I will uphold thee
nith the right hand of my righteousness. You are en-
abled, I hope, to resign yourself to his blessed will ?'
• Yes.' ' You like to hear of Jesus Christ and his sal-
vation ?' ' Yes.'
" Such were the pleasing indications of the frame
of his spirit in dying; and we could only regret that
the nature of his disorder prevented the more full ex-
pression of it.
" I ought to add, that no patient could be more
thoroughly submissive. From the commencement to
the termination of his distemper, he never gave the