slightest indication, by word, or look, or sign, of impa-
315
tience, or repining-, or discomposure, or of even a mo-
mentary reluctance to do, to take, or to bear, whatev-
er was prescribed for him. It arose from that firmness
of mind which always distinguished him, accompanied
by a sense of propriety and duty, and a spirit of pious
resignation."
At Glasgow, I received all the attentions which
could be afforded by the friends, companions and pre-
ceptors of my departed child ; many of whom accom-
panied me, with mourning hearts, to his last earthly
home, in the yard of the North Church ; where his re-
mains were deposited, " to mingle with the dust — I was
going to say, of strangers — but my heart refuses the
word — I will rather say — o( friends, although at a dis-
tance from his father's sepulchres. Those who had
been laid in the same halIo»ved spot before him were,
it is true, unacquainted with him, and he with them :
but they were the kindred of such as knew and loved
him well, and whose ashes will in a short time be suc-
cessively joined to his own."* — There, to use my dear
child's own words, on a similar occasion, — there,
*' The silent grave has claim'd her share of clay,
And guards it till the great delivering day."
To his fellow-students of the Natural Philosophy
Class, I am indebted for the following tender and beau-
tiful address, presented to me the morning after my ar-
rival.
* Dr Wardlaw's Preface.
316
Rev. Sir.
At a moment when you must labor under
the most acute feelings of parental sorrow, it would be
unpardonable to intrude, if we were not assured that no
allusion to that lamented event which has, unhappily,
been its occasion, can add to its poignancy, or increase
its power to absorb the mind.
We are aware, indeed, that the highest alleviation
under so severe a stroke as that which has deprived
you of a beloved son — and of such a son as it falls to
the lot of few fathers to possess, — must arise from sour-
ces superior to that of human sympathy, however gen-
uine ; and we trust that such alleviation will be propor-
tioned to the weight of that affliction which you endure :
still we cannot refrain from expressing our heartfelt
condolence in that loss which we all mourn, and giving
utterance to those feelings of deep regret, which we
cherish for one, now, alas ! no more.
As his fellow students, we could not but be intimate-
ly acquainted with his intellectual endowments, which
were of the highest order; and many of us were not
less aware of the qualities of his heart.
It must be a subject of unfeigned regret to all who
know of the event which we so much deplore, that
those talents and virtues, which had raised their lament-
ed possessor to such an elevation among his fellow stu-
dents, and which seemed destined, ere long, to adorn
the bar, or, perhaps, eventually, the senate of our
country, have become prematurely the prey of death-
317
It is but doing justice to that moral and intellectual
worth, the loss ot^ which has filled us with mingled sor-
row and surprise, to say, that the College has lost one
of the most distinguished members that ever composed
its classes; and that society is deprived of one, who, in
the hope and expectation of all, would have proved to
it a bright and useful ornament.
VVc trust, Sir, that we shall not be thought to have
violated the sacredness of parental grief, in thus ex-
pressing our sincere and united sentiments on this mel-
ancholy occasion ; and in giving a pledge, in which we
are persuaded the whole College joins, of the affection-
ate veneration, in which we embalm the memory of
our late and regretted friend and companion, whose ex-
cellencies and attainments were so remarkable, and so
far above his years.
Believe us to remain,
Rev. Sir,
Your's with true sympathy and respect,
The Students of the Natural Phil. Class.
Glasgow College,
Nov. 30, 1821. FrAivklin Baker, Censor.
1 WILL not fatigue and offend the reader by a detail
of my melancholy return — rendered, indeed, less mel-
ancholy as far as Manchester, by the company of a dear
friend and relative,* who, with considerable inconve-
Rev. J. A. Coombs.
318
nience to himself, took a journe yfrom thence to Glas-
gow, on purpose to soothe my anguish on the way back.
At Birmingham, Bristol, and every place at which 1
rested, the tenderest sympathy and most unremitted at-
tentions of friends awaited me. From several parts of
the kingdom, from churchmen and dissenters, from lay-
men and ministers, I have received letters of warmest
friendship, and, I believe, of sincere condolence. And
though one of xnj afTectionate correspondents remarks,
in language perfectly characteristic of the writer, " I
will not apply the poor mechanism of words to a case
which nothing but the consolations of God can reach ;"
he may rest assured that the wisdom, which those words
have contained, — the affection of heart, which they
have expressed, — the assurances of kind remembrance
at a throne of grace, which they have given, — have
afforded me a large portion of those consolations, which
God has mixed in this my bitterest cup. To my own
congregation, whose affection wanted not this fresh
stimulus to render it all that was gratifying, I owe more
than I can express. And I hope that, through their
prayer to God for me, 1 may repay their kindnesses, by
conferring upon them, in my future ministry, far great-
er benefits than any which I have yet been the instru-
ment of communicating. Several funeral sermons were
preached on the occasion of his death in neighbouring
towns ; for which, as an expression of respect for my
family — I take this opportunity of presenting thanks to
my brethren; at the same time, offering my fervent
prayer to Him, " from whom cometh every good and
perfect gift," that He would pour forth an abundant
319
measure of grace on the youth of their respective con-
gregations.
Home — once so cheerful, so delightful — now render-
ed so desolate — Home,
" Whose echoes and whose empty tread
Would sound like voices from the dead ;"
I trembled to approach. Every object there was con-
nected with my almost idolized family — a family which,
under every conceivable or possible circumstance, must
continue to be equally dear to my affections — my sister,
wife, and child. But duty called me ; and in somewhat
less than three weeks from my departure, 1 revisited
an abode that hud never, till then, been totally cheer-
less.
Memory has, for a season at least, lost nearly all its
pleasures. Whether they shall, under any circumstan-
ces, return, experience alone can decide. It now per-
forms its office with a dreadful fidelity. I shrink from
its reviews, yet indulge them ; they torture me, yet I
cherish them. Instead, however, of sinking into a state
of morbid sensibility; 1 would study to derive, from my
severe afflictions, an increased ardor in discharging the
duties of life, as a christian and a minister of the gos-
pel : — yet, to suppress sorrows, so natural ; to attempt
not to feel ; would be a folly approaching to madness.
I do feel, because God has called me to feel — but, from
this death of my child, and the death of my entire house-
hold, I will take refuge in the death of my best Friend,
who "gave himself a ransom for many;" and whose
word ensures, both to the departed and to myself, a life
eternal, and unmixed with sorrow.
320
And now, ye beloved sister, son and wife, who have
preceded me in your flight to glory, farewell, farewell ;
but not for ever ! — I will endeavor, in dependence upon
that strength and grace which sustained and sanctified
you — to follow your footsteps with more exactness than
1 have hitherto done. And if your deaths but quicken
me to greater circumspection, activity and usefulness,
I will dry up my tears, or smile from amidst them ; I
will bless God for all the pleasure and profit he afford-
ed me by your presence on earth; and even thank Him
that, to accomplish so much good. He has taken you
away from me to heaven ! But while I mark your as-
cent to glory, — congratulate you on not having to weep
for me as I now weep, — and say to " your God and my
God, to your Father, and my Father, Thy will be done"
— I must add, in the beautiful and pious language of
one,* over whose almost magic pages, we have, often
rapt in admiration, spent so many hours together; —
" Lord, if thou wilt support me, I will for ever praise
thee : if thou wilt suffer the load to press me yet more
heavily, I will cry unto thee, and complain unto my
God ; and at last I will lie down and die ; and hy thy
mercies, and intercession of tlie holy Jesus, and the con-
duct of thy blessed Spirit, pass into those regions, where
holy souls rest, and weep no more.'"
* Bishop Jeremy Taylor.
THE END.
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