any one ?''
One female friend, who, with her husband, lives to
weep with me afresh ; and some of my brethren, to
whom I shall never cease to feel my obligations for
their long friendship and unwearied kindness ; came
from afar to weep with us, and by sharing our sorrows,
to lessen them, on that occasion. One of these was Mr.
(now Dr.) Philip, then of Aberdeen^ at present, of Cape
Town in Africa ; whom I mention particularly, as his
coming was of great importance to my dear William's
subsequent comfort. It had ever been our intention
that he should spend four years at the University of Ab-
erdeen, and board with our friend Philip. But, in con-
sequence of his intended removal, he strongly recom-
mended Glasgow. Our great concern was, to procure
a situation in a family of respectability and intelligence,
where my son might feel himself at home, and be hap-
py. Mr. P. thought that Dr. Wardlaw, would possibly,
to oblige us both, take him under his roof. He wrote
a most favourable account of my child ; and Dr. W. con-
sented to receive him. This I shall ever esteem as one
of the happiest circumstances of my life. It placed my
dearest treasure, where, as far as depended upon human
wisdom and kindness, all was safe. It gave to my son,
J03
and eventually to myself, a friend, whom I hope I shall
ever have the privilege of calling such ; and from whom
William received, to the end of his brief life, the kind-
ness of a father. Both Dr. and Mrs. VVardlaw, by their
conduct towards him, have laid me under everlasting
obligations.
Our summer passed away as comfortably as, under
our circumstances, it could be expected to pass. A
large portion of it was taken up in attention to our
poor invalid, whose constitution had received an incura-
ble shock. She was, however, able to accompany us
in September, to London, whither we went for the pur-
pose of taking a passage to Aberdeen, on a visit to our
friend before his departure to Africa. Our residence,
for about a fortnight, in that metropolis of the north of
Scotland, was rendered more than comfortable, by the
kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Philip, and the polite and
friendly attentions of some among the professors of both
colleges, and several of the established ministers of the
town. In that part of the United Kingdom, there were
none of those painful associations which, in moving
among our friends in England, were ever presenting
themselves; and impairing, where they did not abso-
lutely destroy, our pleasures. We could visit no friend
here^ who did not know her whom we loved and for
whom we mourned — no friend, whom we had not seen
in company with her. There all was new ; and it was
the first place that fairly restored William and me to
any thing like our accustomed cheerfulness.
In the city of Aberdeen, we were exceedingly pleas-
ed with an introduction to a young gentleman of uncom-
104
mon promise ; of whom we had heard much ; but whose
modesty and learning surpassed our expectation. He
was the only child of Dr. Ross, like myself, a widower,
and " whose life," like my own, '• was bound up in the
life of his son." This lovely youth was about four years
older than William. But their cong-enial dispositions
and pursuits led me to hope that an acquaintance begun
under his father's hospitable roof might be renewed in
my own house ; and at length matured into a friendship
dissoluble only by death. He had promised to visit
Poole in the next spring, on his way into Devonshire^
whither he was going on a visit to a relation. The ill-
ness of his honoured father prevented his coming to the
south, and the accpjaintanceship ceased. This surpris-
ing young man, who bid fair to rank, as an oriental and
general scholar, with Sir W. Jones, took a journey, in
1820, to the continent of Europe, for the purpose, I un-
derstand, of examining some manuscripts in foreign pub-
lic libraries ; and, after passing several months there,
returned in health to England ; but on his journey from
Dover to London, was overturned in the coach, and re-
ceived an injury which, after causing him to drag out
with difficulty a precarious existence through the win-
ter, consigned him to a grave, which he entered with
christian peace and hope, in the spring of 1821. Both
William and 1 were greatly affected on hearing of his .
death ; felt deeply for the afflicted father; but rejoiced l
to hear that he bore the dreadful stroke with the forti- â–
tude and resignation becoming a servant of God. I can i
now more tenderly sympathise with Dr. Ross than ever. ,
We both grieve only for ourselves. Our beloved and I
105
eminent children are only taken from dang'er and una-
voidable sorrow, to a nobler, holier, and happier state
of being. It were impossible that parents in our circum-
stances should not have indulged high expectations of
benefit to the world, and happiness to ourselves, from
children so endowed with all that was solid and brilliant
in talents, and sweet in disposition ; and blessed too with
an influence from above, disposing them to consecrate
all to the honour and glory of God. But God has taught
us that their stay on earth is not necessary to them-
selves, to us, to the world, or to His cause. '^ 'Tis,"
says the great John Howe, " a piece of divine Royalty
and Magnificence, that when he hath prepared and pol-
ished such an utensil, so as to be capable of great ser-
vice, He can lay it by without loss."
106
HIS FIRST SESSION AT GLASGOW.
We were accompanied to Glasg-ow by an affectionate
relative, Mr, Coombs, of Ludgate-street, London, who
chose the season of our journej to execute a purpose
he had long- formed, of visiting Scotland. He added,
then, as on many other occasions, to our happiness : nor
will he, I am certain, feel hurt to see his name recorded
with gratitude in the Memoirs of William Friend Du-
RANT. We were received most politely by Dr. and Mrs.
Wardlaw, who were destined to become the kindest
friends of my beloved son ; to be the sources of a large
share of his comfort in life ; his affectionate attendants
at the bed of his death — and who now write, " Our eyes
and our hearts fill, when we think and speak of him."
After spending a week together in that city, we left him.
He and I slept in the same room the night preceding my
departure. We prayed together, hand in hand, before
we retired to rest, and after we had risen early on the
morning. His conversation was manly and christian ;
but he breathed a warmer affection towards me, and ex-
pressed a more unbounded confidence in me than he had
ever uttered before. At six in the morning our coach
was to depart. In order to secure a good place, his
cousin and I ascended a few minutes before the time ;
and he accompanied us for the purpose of riding out a
couple of miles. The carriage, however, became crowd-
ed with passengers, and he was obliged to descend. I
shall never forget the tender and agonizing look of that
107
moment. He stood gazing at us for a few seconds ; but
presently I had lost him ; and conjecturing the cause of
his disappearance, I sighed — perhaps wept — with him.
I then thought, and afterwards found from himself, that
he was unable to bear the sight of my departure. I
commended him afresh to the guardian care of our Heav-
enly Father; and felt no slight alleviation of my sorrow
at parting, from the thought that God had provided tor
him such a friend as the gentleman in whose house he
was to reside — and under whose roof he was, alas ! des-
tined to breathe his last !
At College, a perfectly new world opened before
him. To literature, science, and intelligent companions,
he was no stranger. But he was, in effect, an only
child ; had mixed with no children in his studies ; and
had never, till that time, received five lessons, except
in arithmetic, from any teachers but his father and moth-
er. He knew not a single individual in the University.
So entire a change in his habits — formed as he was, too,
for affection — considerably lowered his spirits ; and his
first letters were tinged with a gloom that threw, for a
season, no slight degree of shade over my own mind.
He found nothing, as he expressed it, to which his heart
could cling. He could not, however, be long a stran-
ger; and when known, he could not be long without
admirers and friends. The professors and his class-fel-
lows soon discovered his rare talents, his various attain-
ments, and his indefatigable industry.* To Mr. Walker,
•
* His industry inighl have cost him his life, during the first ses-
sion. He was uccu3lome(J, sometimes not loss than two or three
108
professor of Humanity, he was indebted for the most
marked and polite attentions ; and that gentleman often
expressed the high opinion he entertained of his abili-
ties. In his class my dear boy gained the highest liter-
ary distinctions which his standing at College permitted.
Though he had, before the last Session, left Mr. Walk-
er''s class, that learned professor pronounced upon him,
at his death, a eulogium, the most gratifying to the
heart of a fond and disconsolate father. He entered, at
the same time, into the Greek class : but Professor
Young, one of the profoundest, most ingenious, and acute
philologists of his age, went his last long journey before
bim ; or he would probably, as spontaneously and con-
scientiously have borne his testimony to the excellence
of his pupil's character and conduct ; though it is admit-
ted he had not made such advances in Greek as in the
Latin language.
As soon as I returned to the South, we commenced
a regular correspondence, which never varied a day
from that time till the illness which terminated in his
death. He had not written ten letters before in his
uipfits in the week, to throw himself upon his bed in his co]le2;e
gown, in order that he mi?ht lose no time in dressing and undress-
ing^. I foimd this out accidentally ; but he promised, at my ear-
nest request, not to be guilty of so great an imprudence in future.
Aod after I had received his promise, J was satisfied. Could the
first literary honors of Europe have been gained by a breach of his
•word, 1 was sure tliat it would not have been broken. When he
had once pledged himself to any thing, I never reminded him,
even by an inuendo, of his engagement. / should have felt it to
have been indelicate ; he would have felt it asa reflection on his
integrity : and our confidence was mutual.
109
life ; jet his correspondence bore all the marks of a
disciplined writer, ease, elegance, vivacity, and simplic-
ity. Most of them referred to his every day engage-
ments, and were thrown off in the hurry of the moment.
He says, in letters written at different times during the
session, " I never feel more disposed to write to you,
than just after I have received one of your epistles,
when my heart and my imagination are, if possible, still
warmer than usual ; so that 1 can bring myself into con-
tact, as it were, with you ; and tling forth upon you the
first, the best, the gnnuine offspring of my warmest,
strongest, and most unshackled feelings. At other times,
I like to write, but just now I cannot help it, any more
than I could help going to see you, if I knew that you
were in the next room. * * * My feelings on the re-
ceipt of every letter from you, are peculiarly pleasant;
as I can look on each of them not only as a proof of your
welfare, or a pledge of your atfection, but as a mark by
which to measure my approaches to the centre of at-
traction. Still I have nought to blame in my present
situation. I have enjoyed, and do enjoy, from my good
host and hostess, all the attention that kind politeness
can dictate; and on your part, I receive more than all
that the warmest attachment can expect from the most
enlarged affection. Add to this, my unremitted health,
and unwearied strength ; and oh ! what have I not to
be thankful for to the Author of every good and perfect
gift. * * * 1 can assure you, I needed no ' Write as
usual,'' with a long dash to induce mc to address you.
Selfishness, if no better motive operated, would induce
me to have recourse to the pleasure of writing to you.
9*
110
You know all the delight of receiving letters ; but you
can hardly imagine how delightful it is to me — in the
total want here of every thing like what may be called,
the intimacy of the heart — to pour out my thoughts, my
feelings, my whole soul, every fortnight, peW-me//, with-
out order, ornament, or periphrasis, to you, who, 1 be-
lieve, so tenderly love me ; and who, I know, are so ten-
derly beloved hy me."
I shall present but a few extracts from the corres-
pondence of that Winter.
Glasgow, November 12, 1818.
My very dear Father,
That I may not drive myself into a corner,
I will begin with those things, which I may otherwise
defer, and possibly foiget. Yet after having written
this sentence, 1 almost repent of it ; for as I like to
place every thing in its own order, I tind, on reflection,
that 1 ought to defer all these things to that part of the
sheet I owe to my aunt. Your saying I had not remem-
bered to meptio'n your letter from Birmingham, startled
•me, as much as the fact which authorised the assertion
could have astonished you : nor can I to this moment
imagine how 1 could have forgotten to mention an event
(or rather the news it contained) which called so loudly
for gratitude to God, and which produced delightful,
and, 1 hope, thankful emotions.
For my aunt 1 reserve the narration of domestic oc-
currences ; and to you I will give an account of my
progress at College. Mr Walker is getting acquainted
with me in the class. I am frequently called up, and he
Ill
seems to have some confidence in me : but the most
remarkable event since my last, is, ray having bi eakfast-
ed with the professor. Mr Young is still on the grammar.
We begin to read Anacreon to-morrow. I have had no
opportunities in that class ; and if 1 had, I should not
have been fully prepared, I fear, to improve them.
However, I have met with no signal defeat ; and victo-
ry must be gained by perseverance, or not at all. The
worst part of my situation is, that I am thoroughly coin-
panionless. 1 can have no companion but a class-fellow,*
because it would not be easy to meet another so fre-
quently, and so certainly, at leisure hours to both. I
should very much like a sodality, pursuing the same
studies, and with a slight difference of attainment. This,
however, I have no reason even to hope. I know tew
things that would be more useful to literary progress
than such an association ; but 'tis surely best to dash
Utopian visions from one — make the best of the present
— and forget the past and the possible. As you dislike
cross- writing, and as answers to my aunt's queries will
take up a good deal of room, I must at once say, Fale.
My very dear Aunt,
You are right in supposing me not insensible
of my father's kindness. I know that whatever the fruit
may be, I owe it, under God, to his culture ; and I only
wish the ground were more productive. In your low spir-
* In this, however, he afterwards found himself agreeably mis-
taken.
112
its on your return, I can sympathise with you. There is,
however, the consideration, that the same stroiie which
emptied an house on earth, filled a throne in heaven.
This, surely, should operate, with great strength, in
moderating our grief. * * * 1 hope my dear aunt does
not injure herself by her exertions for her adopted fam-
ily ;* she never was accustomed to such labors : she
must remember, however, that / have still stronger
claims upon her — viz. — to take care of herself for my
sake. It is a great comfort to consider her as with one
who loves her so tenderly, and attends to her so kindly ;
but far more consoling to consider her as under the
perpetual guardianship of our Heavenly Father, whose
love neither life, nor death itself can impair ; but which
must be brightening while it developes itself through-
out eternity : and were it not so much easier simplj' to
believe, than to feel and to carry our belief into every
day's transactions and thoughts, this alone would be suf-
ficient to prevent murmuring, nay, almost even anxiety.
Glasgow, November 26, 1818.
My very dear Father and Aunt,t
It would be in vain to comfort a drowning
man by the most eloquent and harrowing descriptions
of the tortures endured at the stake ; and i'ew^ when
suffering under mental agony, would be satisfied with a
* Two daugli(ers of Dr Philip,
t He always from this time addressed us jointly.
113
philosophical disquisition, to prove that bodily pain is
still more to be dreaded than distress of mind. In cir-
cumstances so peculiar, topics of consolation, if they
occur at all, resemble a desert scene, presenting itself
where the traveller had been taught to expect the lux-
uriance of oriental verdure, illuminated by the brillian-
cy of an Italian sky. Hence it is, that philosophy has
'^Iways been proposing remedies, which mankind have
been ready to applaud, without ever being able to apply
thern ; and like the manoeuvres of young soldiers, which,
at the first cannon tliey hear, or the first death they
witness, are entirely driven from their minds — so, by
the first storm of aflliction, are all the remedies of phi-
losophy, and all the pride of stoicism forgotten ; either
because the rapid advance of the enemy leaves us no
time for the collection of our armour offensive and de-
fensive ; or that the languor his terrible approach pro-
duces, renders all our endeavours, in themselves^ as fee-
ble as their event is unsuccessful. But there is a state
of feeling, — a kind of fluctuation between pain and plea-
sure — when agony, indeed, is not admitted, nor delight
always excluded — but when the heart, though not sear-
ed, is uncomfortable, for want of an outlet ; — when the
affijctions, though not harrowed, are galled ; — and when,
without any thing, or without much that is disagreea-
ble in external circumstances, there is an undefined
something that is distressing, or, at least, is a kind of
discomfort — where, in other circumstances, nothmg
would be seen but hilarity and joy. Every feeling of
this description — call it wretchedness, ennui^ or what
you will — arises, in my opinion, from discontent with
114
one's self, and disUke of one's own company — not that do
1 intend, which is at once the offspring and the nurse of
crime, but rather what may be produced under almost
any circumstances, and by very many occurrences,
which have filled the mind with images 'tis not comfort-
able to recur to, and which yet force themselves on our
solitary or unoccupied attention.
It is in such a state of mind that consolation of every
sort is most valuable : as a ship on a dangerous coast,
during a violent storm, may not find the pilot's art of
any avail ; although, should the tempest abate, and a
moderately brisk gale succeed it, his aid will be peremp-
torily required. My own mind is not unfrequently visit-
ed with moods like those I have been describing ; and
though I never give way to grief, 1 cannot always de-
fend myself from uneasiness. In such cases, I have no
refuge from myself except I fly to my studies, which
are daily thickening upon me : and, although I might,
without disgrace, glide through the College, (or, at
least, these classes) perfectly at my ease ; yet both my
real interests, and my present inclinations, prompt me
to take upon myself some of that labor which is so lib-
erally distributed to those who are willing ^era iifjeoTOi-
Gi noviiv.
But I am too querulous, and my aunt will no longer
give me the praise of " making the best of things." I
will therefore, alter a strain into which 1 was led by
the folly of attempting to analyse what was scarce worth
mentioning ; but 1 must needs catch a little nicety of
division, &,c. from Professor Young. Mr Walker re-
marked, when I breakfasted with him, that he thought
115
of Lord Byron, as a poet, just as he should of a success-
ful and powerful painter, who yet was unable to pro-
duce any thing of merit, without introducing, in one
part of the canvass or another, the entrails of a wound-
ed man. To follow out the same metaphor, — I seem
(not that I pretend to Byronian fire) to be attempting
your amusement and pleasure by the accurate delinea-
tion of a sore finger ! 1 can only say, that 1 possess
very many mercies, and so many more than 1 can de-
serve, that to complain of my lot would be as ungrateful
to their Author, as it would be distressing to you, the
channels through which they have generally Jlowed
to me.
Since my last, I have become acquainted with a stu-
dent of very respectable connexions, considerable in-
formation and classical learning ; and, as far as 1 have
been able to discover, of very good principles ; although
I question whether he has much of the social springs the
vis vivida of companionship. / had heard of /«'m, and
I suppose he had heard of me. After reconnoitring for
some days, we just spoke to each other, because we had
nobody else to speak to ; so that if this juxtaposition
does not produce very close cohesion, yet the acquaint-
ance can hardly be injurious, and may be agreeable and
instructive.
Glasgow, January 7, 1819. (The day he u<as sixteen.)
Your letter to-day afforded me great and un-
'iniogled pleasure ; and, I hope, inspired me with thank-
116
fulness for the mercies I experience through you. I
have a good deal to communicate ; and therefore begin
my letter to-day, being a holyday. I have, neverthe-
less, plenty to do ; but my time is not so much cut up
as when the classes meet, and prevent my doing any
thing before three, or much before live o'clock. 1 dare
say I took too much for granted, and so talked an unin-
telligible language in my last ; I will, therefore, des-
cribe the whole process of the examination.
The College Library is rather a fine room, you
know. At the end, towards the chimnej', is placed a
table with seats for professors at one end, and a finely
carved oaken chair, (presented, I think, by James IV.
and requiring three or four men of these degenerate
days to lug it about) at the other. It has a black mar-
ble bottom, which has, time immemorial, sustained the
(literally) groaning weight of students — probably, Knox
and the great Buchanan, among the rest. It is sur-
mounted by an hour-glass turning on a pivot, and sur-
rounded with laurel. Old John Machlachlan stands be-
hind, watch in hand, calling out, every five minutes,
" Jld aliuin^ Domitie,^'' a warning voice given for form's
sake, and never attended to by the examining professor.
Every person on entering a new class, is supposed to
be acquainted with the science, fee. he has left behind
him. Now as I rank among the Grjcci, I should be ac-
quainted with Latin. My knowledge is to be proved
by an examination conducted by the professor 1 am sup-
posed to have left. But the general examination is,
necessarily cursory and superficial. — Prizes then are
proposed — five for the Latin, and one or two for the
117
Greek profession ; anil the examination ol' the competi-
tors is comparatively strict and long'. This, tlierefore,
rendered my profession so tremendous. The Humanity
professor will not judge himself. We (the competitors)
chose our own mode of trial. Fifteen jiidices were
elected by those, 7iot competing, who profess this year.
These took their seats close to the table aforesaid, not-
ed down every mistake, and will give judgment accord-
ingly.
The common professions are attended by the exami-
nator and the professor to whose class you are going.
Ours was, on the contrary, honored by the attendance
of Professors Walker, Young, .Tardine, Myine, Mickle-
ham, and Principal Taylor. Imagine me seated in the
chair, my hand trembling, while I was reading aloud my
own profession ; then unable to find the books 1 was
asked for, and in the utmost state of perturbation.
When the examination began, I felt myself, however,
on solid ground ; and Mr Walkers kind manner quite
re-assured me. I was examined in four authors^ out of
thirUj-nine which 1 professed. In Persius, I was slight-
ly embairassed ; not that I did not understand him, so
much as from the difficulty of finding English words ex-
actly corresponding to the Latin. However, I did net
stop. I only wonder / got on at all. You may form
some notion of the excitement, when I say, that the
whole time occupied by my examination, did wot appear
to me more than two minutes ; and even now, 'tis only