From a child, he gave
evidence of possessing a constitution of peculiar delicacy, which was,
therefore, liable to be affected, both mentally and physically, by many
causes, which do not operate powerfully on persons of a robust and hardy
temperament. They symptoms of a morbid depression, which appeared during
the summer of 1826, were only, I apprehend, the harbingers of the fatal
attack, by which he was appointed to be removed from this world. I fear it
was not discovered in time, that the brain was the origin of his
complaints; the intense and unceasing action of the mind, proving too
powerful for his delicate bodily frame. In the mysterious arrangements of
Providence, it would seem, that whatever arrives very early at perfection,
is destined to be soon cut off. Premature growth is generally followed by
a premature end. The case of Urquhart is very similar to those of Durant
and Kirke White; and the inimitably beautiful lines which Lord Byron
applies to the latter, are, I conceive, equally applicable to my young
friend. It is singular, that the passage to which I refer, was transcribed
by him into a scrap-book, entitled, "Extracts in Poetry, from various
authors," only a short time before his death.
"Oh! What a noble heart was here
undone,
When Science’ self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit.
‘Twas thine own genius gave the fatal blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft which quivered in his heart.
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion, which impelled the steel:
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest,
Drank the last life drop of his bleeding breast.
The last entry in his journal describes the
commencement of the attack, which terminated his earthly career, and gives
a most delightful view of the state of his mind. "The ruling passion," his
devoted attachment to the missionary cause, appears strong even in death.
To be withdrawn from this work was the only thing which excited his
regret, or extorted the expression of painful feeling; yet, even in regard
to that, his mind appeared perfectly subdued.
"December, 1826.
"Wednesday, 13th.—An
excessive languor and weakness has prevented me from studying regularly
this week. Had a long conversation with the gardener, last night, whom I
find to be a very shrewd man. He is quite a Scotchman. The contrast, in
point of intellect, and acquired knowledge, between him and the English
servants in the family, is very striking. Yet they have travelled a good
deal, and have nearly one-third of the day at their own disposal. His
knowledge has been picked up in his own cottage, and those around it. He
argues well on the doctrines of Christianity; but, I fear, as is the case,
alas! With many of our countrymen, the head is engaged more than the
heart.
"14th.
Rose to-day at a quarter to eight. Read half a chapter of the Greek
Testament. Second chapter of Joshua in Hebrew. Dr. Cokely called to-day,
and pronounces my illness an affection of the liver. This has distressed
me a good deal, as it may unfit me for the East, which I have long
contemplated as the scene of my labours. But the Lord knows what is best.
If he hedge up the way, I may not walk in it. I would not,
if I might. I begin a course of medicine on Friday, which, I pray God may
bless, for the restoration of my health; that my body may be fitted for
his service. If this be not his will, I know, that the destruction of this
body will perfect the soul, and fit it for a higher, and a holier service,
in the heavenly temple.
"‘O most delightful hour by man
Experienced here below;
That hour which terminates his span,
His sorrow and his woe.’
"14th.
Not so weak this morning, but able to accomplish little in the way of
study. Prepared and attended my meeting. This is always a refreshment. I
was enabled to speak with earnestness and feeling on the mercy and the
justice of our God. My breathing a good deal affected to-night in walking.
Though the night is wet, I feel better since I have been out."
How delightful it is to
find, that to the very last, he laboured in his Master’s service, and
seemed to derive fresh strength from doing the will of God.
To his friend Tate, he
wrote the following interesting letter, on the 19th of December:--
"TENNOCH SIDE, December 19, 1826.
"MY DEAR BROTHER—This world, though
which we are passing, is a desert, and no wonder that its dreariness
should depress our spirits. Our souls too are suffering under a loathsome
disease; and if we are sensible of its loathsomeness, no wonder that we
sometimes abhor our ownselves. But the desert through which we travel,
leads to our home, and we have an all powerful remedy for the disease that
preys upon our souls. True, sin will struggle on, and the old man will
fight for the mastery, as long as he may, but we shall soon leave the
wilderness, and all its sufferings, behind us. Strange that we should ever
wish to linger. You remember that beautiful hymn;
—There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.
There everlasting spring abides,
And never-withering flowers:
Death, like a narrow sea, divides,
This heavenly land from ours.
Sweet fields beyond the swelling
flood
Stand dressed in living green:
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.
But timorous mortals start and shrink
To cross this narrow sea,
And linger, shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.
Could we but climb where Moses stood;
And view the landscape o’er;
Not Jordan’s stream, — nor death’s cold flood,
Should fright us from the shore.’
"I had a letter from our
dear Craik, a few days before I received your last. He talks of being a
missionary. Brown and he think of Ireland. I should think them well fitted
for debate, especially Henry. I fear some one must be found to supply my
place among the number of intending missionaries. You know that I have not
been bent from what I thought the course of duty, by the arguments of men;
but now God has spoken in a way which I think, (but I am not sure,) is
decisive. I have been sickly for some weeks, and it turns out to be
inflammation of the liver. I have been taking the usual course of
mercurial pills for some days, and the Doctor orders the side to be
blistered to-morrow. I wished to write before I am quite laid up, chiefly
to request you to tell me all about St. Andrew’s when you return. I hoped
to have visited it soon, but the Lord has determined otherwise. Pray for
me, that whether death or life be in this cup, the Lord may enable me to
drink it with cheerfulness. Remember that I am literally in a land of
strangers. Not a single Christian friend to whisper consolation, none to
whom I can pour forth the feelings of my soul. Remember me very
affectionately to my dear Rentoul, in whom I feel a very peculiar
interest. My old companion, William Adam, I expected to have heard from. I
have others, in my mind, but I am wearied. My chief pain is in my right
arm and side. Do not speak of my illness at St. Andrew’s, as the report
might reach home, and I have not yet written."
Whether the means resorted
to, were those best suited to his case, I pretend not to say; but while a
partial recovery was effected, the disease would seem still to have gone
on. To his esteemed friend, Craik, at Exeter, he wrote at different times,
the following letter: —
"TENNOCH SIDE, December,
1826.
I have to thank you, my dear
brother, for two affectionate letters, since I wrote last. Your last was a
letter of mourning, and yet it refreshed me much, and comforted me. It was
but a day or two after, that I had a letter from our dear friend Tait,
breathing the same strain of lamentation for worldliness, and panting
after a closer walk with God. We are all one family, my brother, and what
wonder that the feelings of our hearts are one, while banished from
our home, and wandering amid dangers, fighting with powerful enemies, and
surrounded by strangers who know us not, or who know us only to hate us.
But let us take courage. ‘The night is far spent, the day is at hand.’
Weeping may endure for a night; but joy will come in the morning.
It is not always by light, and faith, and joy, that the Lord answers
prayer for spirituality of mind. There is great truth in that hymn of
Newton’s, —
"‘ I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith, and love, and every grace;
Might more of his salvation know,
And seek more earnestly his face.
I hoped that in some favoured hour,
At once he’d answer my request;
And by his love’s constraining power,
Subdue my sins and give me rest.
Instead of this, he made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry powers of hell
Assault my soul in every part.
Lord, why is this? I trembling cried;
Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?
‘‘Tis in this way,’ the Lord replied,
I answer prayer for grace and faith.
These inward trials I employ,
From self and pride to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earthly joy,
That thou may’st seek thy all in me.’
"Why does God leave us
so long in a world of sin? Why were his ancient people forty years in
travelling through the wilderness? Why are we exposed to so many
temptations? It is because he will not only deliver us, but will show us
the horror of that state, from which we have been delivered. And the more
we know of our own vileness, shall not our praise be the louder, when we
join in that glorious anthem, ‘Unto him that loved us?’
"I have been a mourner too.
New circumstances have presented new temptations, and the Lord has shown
me my utter weakness. Once, I thought my heart could not be viler than I
knew it to be; but God has led me, as he did his prophet of old, from one
scene of iniquity to another; and when I have thought that now I have seen
all, he has opened some secret place within my breast, and showed me
‘greater abominations still.’ Nor am I sure, that I know yet the depths of
iniquity that are within me. How easy to pass among men as pious and holy!
They compare themselves among themselves. You talk about passing the
Rubicon, my dear brother. The river of death is the Rubicon. Not till we
have passed it, shall we be completely freed from the world, and
from its cares. I say this, because I remember feeling, as I think you do.
I thought, did I decidedly give up the hope of worldly honours and
comforts, by deciding on the missionary life, I should no more be harassed
by the cares, or allured by the vanities of earth. But it is not so. To
think much of the Saviour is the only way to be made like him. I like much
your plan regarding Ireland. I do think your talents, and also those of
our friend Brown, are quite of a cast for it. It has been urged much upon
me, but you know well I am not the person for such a scene. You ask
me concerning my plans. I have no plan at present. If Colonel Moreland
goes to Edinburgh in April, I may probably stay a little longer with him.
Some information I got to-day, has distressed me a good deal, as it makes
me fear that I shall never be fit for a warm climate. I have been drooping
and sickly for some weeks. To-day, the doctor has come from Glasgow, and
pronounces my illness an affection of the liver. He thinks there is no
inflammation, and that a course of medicine will remove this attack. I am
able to go about, though not very fit for study, and, have merely a slight
pain, like rheumatism, in my arm and side. Rentoul, Alexander, Duff and
Trail, are in St. Andrew’s. From John Adam, I have not heard since I wrote
you. My meeting here is confined to young people, thirteen or fourteen
attend. There is no village. They come from scattered cottages. Of course,
I do not preach, I talk to them. My meeting with them always refreshes and
invigorates me. We go, perhaps, to Dysart, at Christmas. I may, perhaps,
have an opportunity of visiting St. Andrew’s."
"This is Christmas-day, and
it is well for me the family have not moved. John Adam has written me
lately; he is well, and goes on with his plan of preaching occasionally.
"The other part of this
letter was written a considerable time ago; but I thought it better, since
I had mentioned my illness, not to send it off till I should see what the
issue might be. Decided symptoms of inflammation soon appeared; but I am
glad to say, that the Lord has blessed the means employed to remove the
disease. At least, we think so at present. You must excuse me for not
writing more, as I am excessively weak. I have ate very little, and have
been allowed to eat nothing nourishing for some time. Add to this, that I
have had a good deal of medicine, and a blister on my side, and you will
not wonder that I am much reduced. I can add no more at present, but that
I am ever your friend and brother in the strongest bonds."
The last letter he wrote
was to his father, though the painful event that so soon followed, was
then little anticipated.
"TENNOCH
SIDE, December 27, 1826.
"MY DEAR FATHER — Christmas
is past, and I am afraid you will be expecting me. This is the reason, I
suppose, that my many letters have produced no answers. The family do not
go to Dysart; and, in my present circumstances, that has been a great
blessing to me. I may venture to tell you, now that I am better, that I
have had rather a serious illness, inflammatiomi of the liver. I had been
very weak for some time, loathing food, and oppressed with a pain in my
arm and side, which I called rheumatism. Mrs. Moreland had the kindness to
send for the doctor of the regiment, who prescribed great abstinence; the
blue pill to be taken every night; and, lastly, a large blister for the
right side. It has pleased God to bless these means for the removal of the
disease. Of course, I am very much reduced. I have been treated with as
much kindness as if I had been at home, by the house-keeper especially,
who always dressed my blister, and watched me like a mother. I could not
have looked for such kindness in a land of strangers. The Lord can raise
up friends wherever we are; but I have had no Christian to whom I could
open my heart. But the Lord is here. With love to all, I am ever your
affectionate son."
This letter was written
when he must have been very ill, as he found it necessary to leave Colonel
Moreland’s on the second or third of January, with a view to return home.
He got as far as Glasgow; and, under the hospitable roof of Mr Ewing,
received that kind welcome, which, had invariably been shown him, from the
first period of his acquaintance with that excellent family. The following
letters, addressed by Mr and Mrs Ewing, to his father, are important, as
they show the progress of the complaint, the means which were employed to
arrest it, and the deep interest which they took in the amiable sufferer.
"GLASGOW, January 5, 1827
"MY DEAR SIR — I am sorry to inform
you, that your son came to us two days ago, rather in a poor state of
health. I suppose he must have informed you, some weeks ago, of his having
pain in his side, for which the regimental surgeon, (who seems a very
respectable man,) ordered a course of mercury, that is now finished, but
seems to have reduced our young friend to a state of great weakness.
Nevertheless the doctor says he sees no cause for alarm, as there is
little or no fever in his pulse, but there is no getting him to follow
advice in taking his food. This the doctor thinks will prevent him from
recovering strength till he can go home, which he thinks he may do, if he
gets into the coach, and takes a little warm brandy and water once or
twice on the road. At Tennoch Side, he became hypochondriac, and would eat
nothing till it was out of season. We hoped he would have cheered up a
little here, from conversation and nourishment; but I am sorry to say we
are disappointed. I think it my duty, therefore, to beg, that if possible,
either you or his mother will come here in the beginning of the week, to
endeavour to prevail with him to take nourishment, and to consult with his
medical attendant what is best to be done. The doctor declares he sees
nothing but the flatulency of an empty stomach that should prevent him
from eating. After all, I shall not be surprised if he propose going
to-morrow by the coach, for he did so last night, but not till the places
had been all taken. Yet, if he persist in neglecting his food, he cannot
get better. I grieve to write thus, but we are quite at a loss, for we
cannot urge him; and he does not appear to be at present a good judge in
his own case. I am writing without his knowledge, for when I proposed it
before, he refused to let me."
"GLASGOW, January 5,
1827.
"MY DEAR SIR — Since writing
to you in the forenoon, Mr. Ewing (who has been obliged to go to the
church-meeting) thinks I should write to go by the seven o’clock coach, by
which you might expect your son, to say he has never spoken of it again
this day at all; and that though his pulse is down, we do not think him
better, and feel at a loss how to manage him. The doctor says he should
not lie in bed, but we cannot persuade him to make any exertion. The
doctor says he must eat, and it is almost by compulsion, and never but
when one of us in a manner insists and holds it to him, that he takes
anything. We hope, therefore, you will come, as the doctor assures us he
is quite able for the journey. We should feel it quite distressing to let
him go alone, and shall feel very anxious till you come. At the same time
let me assure you, we have not concealed any circumstance from you. The
doctor says his pulse is seventy-two only. He appears to me, as I have
seen people, highly hysterical. We are sorry to give you all this anxiety,
knowing what must be felt for such a son; but we feel it a matter of duty,
and, doing as we would be done by. Lieutenant-Colonel Moreland called
to-day with the doctor; all that family seem to have paid him uncommon
attention."
His father, it may be
supposed, lost no time in proceeding to Glasgow; but before he could reach
it, the most melancholy progress had been made by the fatal disease. Other
medical aid had been called in, and that which had been supposed to be an
affection of the liver, was discovered to be an affection of the brain, on
which an effusion had taken place, which accounts for the comatose state
into which he had been sinking for some days, till at last it had deprived
him of all consciousness, and left no hope of a recovery.
My esteemed friend, Mrs.
Ewing, who watched his dying bed with a mother’s anxiety, has furnished me
with a full and interesting account of his last days, which, together with
the additional information supplied by her valued relative Miss Cathcart,
who also acted the part of a tender nurse, the reader I am sure, will be
pleased to receive in their own words, although their letters contain a
slight repetition in some particulars.
"GLASGOW, April, 7, 1827.
"After Colonel Moreland’s family
returned at the end of October, I think from Lord Rosslyn’s, young
Urquhart was only one Sabbath with us, and then said he had been a good
deal troubled with his stomach. When Dr. Marshman was here, I wrote to ask
him to meet him at dinner. He wrote, I might guess his disappointment at
not being able to come seven miles to see him, when he had gone to London
to see Dr. Morrison. The surgeon of the cavalry told me he had had a
threatening of inflammation of the liver, for which he had given him
Dover’s powders, and blue pill, but this Mr. Urquhart had mistaken for a
course of mercury. He came in here on the Wednesday preceding the one on
which he died, and seemed very weak and much worn out with the drive; but
told me he was now quite free of pain or complaint, except weakness and
sickness when he took food. He said he had been so very ill, that though
he never was insensible, he had felt what he never had before, that he
could not pronounce the words he wished to say. He appeared to me highly
nervous, and till his illness took a more serious turn, I had the idea
which the medical attendant confirmed, that it was a hysterical case, from
weakness. Both the surgeon and himself thought he was able for the journey
to Perth, but he was persuaded to stop till the Friday, and take one day’s
rest. No ticket was to be had providentially for Friday: for we should
have attributed his illness and death to the journey, had he gone. But it
is very probable, though the ticket had been got he could not have been
conveyed to the coach, as we could never get him to set up after the
Thursday night; though he told the doctor he was better, and that he had
had five hours’ sleep. His pulse also was better that day. That night,
however, we thought him worse, and got a careful sick nurse, in whom we
could confide, to be in his room all night. It was two next day when the
surgeon called, and when I told him that he ate and drank what we gave
him, but stared at us and did not speak, he left me abruptly, and ran up
to his room. I followed instantly, being alarmed, and on examining his
eyes and trying him in every way to make him speak, he requested more
assistance, and told us what the other medical man confirmed, that it was
a very bad case of suffusion on the brain. His head was shaved, leeches
applied, and then a large blister over his head, and one on his neck. He
continued quite insensible that night and next morning, and the medical
gentleman then thought it was hastening to a close. His father arrived at
eleven, but John did not know him when first he came. When Mr. Ewing came
in from the forenoon service, it struck me there was more intelligence in
Mr. Urquhart’s face, and I begged of him to come up and speak to him, and
pray; which, to gratify me he did, for he had no hope himself, thinking I
fancied I saw what I so eagerly wished. Mr. Ewing spoke a few sentences on
the hope of the gospel, as suited to one in the near prospect of death,
and the glory, honour, and immortality, that were treasured up in heaven
for those whose trust was in the Lord Jesus Christ; and then prayed for
him as seemingly near death. You may believe I watched narrowly the effect
of this, and observed him exceedingly agitated and affected. When Mr.
Ewing finished, his hands, which he had not moved for many hours, I saw
him endeavouring to disengage from the bed clothes, and therefore I raised
the clothes; when he stretched out his hand and pressed Mr. Ewing’s, and
smiled. Mr. Ewing said, ‘Do you know me?’ When he said, ‘Do not I know Mr.
Ewing?’ I went for his father, and he knew him and named him. After this
he lay above an hour quite motionless, but apparently to me in meditation
and prayer. At the end of that period, he observed and named me, and said,
‘My mind is quite calm now.’ I said, I trust your hope is fixed on the
Rock of Ages. He three times replied in a most impressive way, ‘Yes; my
hope is fixed on the Rock of Ages.’ I went on speaking for a
little in the same way, saying, You will find it ‘a sure foundation;’ that
Christ is able to save to the uttermost; that he is a very
present help in trouble; that the hope set before us in his blessed
gospel, is a glorious hope. His weakness seemed not to permit him
to say much, but he repeated the emphatic words in each passage, in a tone
of exultation I think I hear yet, and with a countenance beaming with
delight. Knowing the state of insensibility from which he seemed newly
recovered, I felt a kind of half fear at his only repeating what I said,
and stopped; when he went on himself with two or three passages, importing
the full triumph of faith. But now I remember only one; it was, ‘I know
that nothing shall separate me from the love of God,
which is in Christ Jesus my Lord;’ but it is impossible to convey
an idea of the tone and manner. It made all in the room weep abundantly
except myself; I was thankful I could command my feelings, on his account.
We were not aware till afterwards, that his mind had, during the illness
before Christmas, been extremely depressed; and that it was on expressing
that to his young friend, that the beautiful lines were sent that were
something like prophetical of his state before death. I send you Jane’s
letter to Miss Young, which will supply anything else he said while able
to speak. From that time till within an hour or two of his death, and long
after he ceased to speak or see, whenever he heard Mr. Ewing’s voice, he
ceased his moaning or laborious breathing, to listen; or when any of us
repeated a passage of Scripture. When the medical men returned at four on
Sabbath, expecting to find him very near a close of his sufferings, they
were very much astonished at the change in his sight, and restored
understanding and speech; and though they would not say they could give us
hope, they said symptoms were better, and that he must not be excited by
speaking, but kept very quiet. This slight hope was kept up all Monday,
and we went to bed that night (leaving two to watch him) with stronger
hope; but at four in the morning his attendants came for me on his being
greatly worse. At four in the afternoon of Tuesday, he was increasingly
worse, and then death was so evidently near, that both Miss Cathcart and I
sat up till after four, when I was compelled to lie down for two hours,
from worn-out strength. When I returned at six he was evidently weaker.
His last hour was while we were at breakfast. Miss Cathcart would not
leave the room, and I just entered it to see the last breath drawn by the
dear young saint.
"You will remember first
introducing him to my husband, and I have often thought we owed to the
fondness of that interview excited in both to each other, the honour God
granted us of having him to minister to in his illness and death. He came
first to this house when he arrived in Glasgow, and we secured by that,
what any other family would have done, that he should always come to us;
and so eager were we to have him, that when Mr. and Mrs. Matheson and
children were with us, after fixing we should ask a bed for him from our
kind neighbour Mrs. Smith, we put up a bed for him in the little
dressing-room. I send you the letters of Dr. Chalmers, and Mrs. Moreland,
&c., and you know the universal testimony to his worth, and talents, and
piety, and engaging manners. If there is anything further you wish on this
subject that I can supply, it will give me satisfaction. I cannot but hope
the Lord will bless the memoir to many souls. Surely such a bright star
has not, in the short space it was seen, reflected all it was lighted up
for, of the glory of God."
The following is Miss
Cathcart’s letter, to which Mrs. Ewing refers: —
"We have witnessed a very
painful and solemn scene, in the death of that dear child of God. Mr. and
Mrs. Ewing felt it an honour to administer to his comfort; and it was a
privilege to myself attending him, which I trust will benefit my own soul.
Much mercy was mixed with the trying dispensation. It was most
providential a ticket in the Perth coach could not be had; and when Mr.
Urquhart seemed to regret it, Mr. Ewing said there was a Providence in all
these things; in which he directly acquiesced. In all his wanderings, not
a murmur or complaint was heard. When he was collected and prayed aloud,
it was most delightful to hear him pouring out his heart to God in such
humble and scriptural language. I wish the self-righteous had heard him
declare that if he got where he deserved he would be in hell-fire, and
that he had nothing to plead but the mercy of God, through the
righteousness of Christ. At times, when unable to speak, he appeared
sensible, by the placid smile on his countenance. When Mr. Ewing was
praying, and when he mentioned any of the cheering promises in the gospel
to believers, Urquhart would say, ‘Yes! yes!’ with great emphasis. At one
time when his poor father asked the state of his mind, he replied, ‘in
perfect peace, stayed on God,’ and repeated a second time, ‘stayed on
God.’ One morning he asked me if his father was up. I asked him if he
wished to see him; he replied, ‘Yes.’ When he came he said, ‘John, do you
know your father?’ to which he replied, ‘I know my father;’ and then Mr.
Urquhart said, ‘I hope you know your Father in heaven, who, I trust, has
prepared a mansion for you.’ I think the sweet youth said, ‘I believe
there is.’ At another time when nobody was in his sight, I heard him say,
‘Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly.’ When alone in his room, but not that he
could see me, he said, ‘Who is there?’ I went to his bed-side, and said
Miss Cathcart, thinking he might not know my voice; he replied, ‘When did
you come here?’ I said I have been with you all the time you have been ill
here, and I feed you with what you eat; he said, ‘I am happy to have my
friends with me.’ I replied, you have a Friend who sticketh closer than a
brother; ‘Yes,’ he added, ‘Jesus Christ is a friend who sticketh closer
than a brother; but all the Lord’s people are interested in each other.’
At times when we did not think he knew us, he showed us he did by naming
us, or holding out his hand, and expressed anxiety for Mrs. Ewing
fatiguing herself, by different times saying, ‘My beloved Mrs. Ewing, lie
down beside me.’ The most heart-rending scene I ever witnessed, was on the
Tuesday night before his death. Mr. Urquhart came into the room, and at
the bed-side gave up in prayer his son to the Lord, when all the yearning
of the afflicted parent was expressed, and the submission of the Christian
exemplified. Some present thought John sensible and agitated, but I was so
much distressed myself that I did not observe. The poor father is much to
be pitied, who says he has lost his child, son, friend, counsellor, and
comforter. My friend Mrs. Smith’s husband, told me he had never been at a
funeral where such a feeling of regret was shown. The sick-nurse and the
servants paid him the greatest attention, and many tears they shed for
him. He told us how very kind Colonel and Mrs. Moreland had been to him;
also that the housekeeper had been quite like a mother to him during his
illness."
His death took place on
Wednesday, the 10th of January, 1827, when he was only eighteen years and
six months old. His career was short, but interesting, useful, and
glorious. However mysterious it may appear to us, it was doubtless well
with him; and Christ, who was gain to him in life, proved to him gain in
death also. His course was calm, holy, and consistent; its termination was
peaceful and happy. It was improved by Mr. Ewing, on the following Lord’s
day, from Psalm cxvi. 15. "Precious in the sight of the Lord, is the death
of his saints." It produced, among many others, the following letter from
Dr. Chalmers, to his father:—
"ST.
ANDREW’S, January 15, 1827.
"MY DEAR SIR — I cannot
refrain from offering my condolence on the late melancholy bereavement,
wherewith it hath pleased a mysterious Providence to visit you. I received
the intelligence, by a letter from Mr. Ewing, which I circulated among the
numerous friends and acquaintances of your son in this place. His death
has created a great sensation among his fellow-students, by whom he was
held in the highest reverence and regard; which feelings were shared also
by the Professors; several of whom I heard expressing their utmost regret,
and affirming him to be the most distinguished, in point of ability and
good conduct, of all the disciples who ever attended them. I yesterday
communicated the afflicting intelligence to the children of my
Sabbath-school. They both knew and loved him, he having taken charge of
their religious instruction for one session of College. They were
evidently affected by the melancholy news.
"To your Christian mind,
there is a far richer consolation than that which is afforded by the
report, or the remembrance of his first-rate talents; talents which would
have raised him to the highest summits of learning and philosophy, had he
not wished to consecrate them all to the service of his Redeemer. Your
best, and most precious comforts, under this heavy dispensation, are to be
drawn from the consideration of that faith, by which he was actuated; of
that grace which animated his heart and adorned his history; of that
glory, for the enjoyment of which he was so ripened and prepared; in a
word, of that promise, that they who sleep in Jesus, shall meet again in
that country, where sorrow and separation are alike unknown.
"Few parents are called to
sustain so severe a loss as you have now done; but with few, very few
indeed, is the loss tempered by such precious alleviations.
"I am, my dear sir,
"Yours, with sympathy and regard,
"THOMAS CHALMERS."
The following lines
addressed to him by one of his correspondents, were, indeed, sadly
prophetical of the event which so soon after took place. They are simple,
and beautifully descriptive of the feelings, not of the writer only, but
of his friend, and strikingly applicable to his last closing scene.
2 TIMOTHY iv. 6.
"The Christian Pilgrim bid depart,
Departs without a sigh,
Fear can no longer chill his heart,
Or sorrow dim his eye.
In Heaven’s own garments see him
stand
On death’s much dreaded shore,
He gazes on the promised land,
And seems already o’er.
We saw him oft betray a fear
As near this flood he drew;
But now a willing pilgrim here,
He kindles at the view.
A ray hath broke from Canaan’s land,
Across that sullen flood:
It bids him quit his mortal strand,
And onward march to God.
He marches on for now his eye
Hath lost life’s lurid ray,
As suns which quit a clouded sky
To shine in brighter day.
Oh could we catch a moment’s view,
Of what he now must know,
Sorrow would fill our spirits too,
To linger thus below."
I feel as if I had now
filled my allotted task; and that it is better to draw this narrative to a
close, than by attempting anything in the shape of character, to deprive
the reader of the impression, which the facts themselves, and the
concluding scene, are fitted to produce. But I cannot abstain from a few
concluding observations.
To me, the undertaking has
been one of a very painful, and, at the same time, pleasing nature;
partaking as much of the mixed feeling, which the poet describes, as "the
joy of grief," as anything which has ever engaged my attention. How much I
loved him, I have not ventured, nor will I now venture to express. That he
was entitled to it all, and to more than all, I am well convinced. If I
felt towards him all the affection of a father, he repayed it with all the
tenderness and confidence of a son. I feel as if the world had become, by
his death, less an object of interest to me than it was; but I trust I
have also been made to feel, in common with many of his devoted friends,
that the attractions of a better world have been multiplied and
strengthened, by his removal thither.
Afraid to trust myself in
describing his character and attainments, lest my personal feelings might
be supposed to have too powerfully influenced my judgment, I have
interspersed the opinions and testimonies of others, with my own
statements, and the papers of the deceased. These testimonies I have not
nearly exhausted; nor is it possible for me to convey an adequate idea of
the extent to which he was beloved and admired by all who knew him. The
sweetness of his natural disposition, and the bewitching simplicity of his
manners; the soundness of his judgment, and the fertility of his
imagination; the ardor of his pursuit of science and literature, with the
variety and accuracy of his attainments, rendered him one of the most
extraordinary individuals of his years. When with these, are combined his
extensive knowledge of the mystery of redemption, and of the sacred
volume; his simplicity of aim, with the fixed and intense ardor of his
zeal; his love to the souls of others, which made him ready to lay his
learning, his talents, his genius, and his life, at the foot of the cross,
and to abandon the country where he might have shone and triumphed, for
scenes of foreign labour and suffering; the eminent spirituality of his
mind, the consistency of deportment, and maturity of character and
experience, at which he arrived, I need scarcely add, he presented an
uncommonly rare assemblage of natural, acquired, and Christian
excellencies. Of the truth of this representation, every reader has now
been furnished with the means of judging for himself; and I safely leave
with him the conclusion to be drawn.
His Christian character is
that on which the mind now reposes, with the greatest satisfaction. As it
regards his other attainments, "literature has failed, tongues have
ceased," and "knowledge has vanished away." What he was as a linguist, and
a mathematician, might have been of importance, had he lived; what he was
as a believer in Jesus, is the only thing of importance to him now. He has
attained to the perfect state, and experiences a high degree of that
felicity, which he could so well describe, and which he so earnestly
panted to enjoy.
"If I might be allowed,"
says a correspondent, to whom one of his last letters was addressed, "to
say anything, from the acquaintance I had with him—and there was scarce a
day, last winter, in which I was not some time with him—I would say of
him, as his biographer said of Henry Martyn, ‘A more perfect Christian
character I never knew.’ Like Martyn, indeed, it might be said of him,
‘His symmetry in the Christian stature, was as surprising as its height.’
I never saw a finer example of ‘a living sacrifice;’ he seemed, indeed, to
reckon himself not his own, but bought with a price, and, as such, he was
entirely devoted to the glory of God. Nor did he care what perils, or
sufferings, he underwent, if so be that that object might be promoted. In
this cause, even death did not appal him. I remember well, when he thought
of China as a scene of missionary labour; and when he was told that the
government positively prohibited the missionaries from preaching in that
country, he said, he should conceive it his duty to transgress this
prohibition; and if his death was the consequence, let it be so; the blood
of a missionary sometimes advanced the cause, as much as his long life and
labours. Think of such devotion in a youth of eighteen, whose rare talents
and unquestioned Christian character, gave him the fairest prospect of
usefulness and comfort in his native land, while they would have
infallibly secured to him the admiration and affection of all who knew
him. He was eminently spiritually-minded. No one ever felt more the burden
of indwelling sin, and never did captive exile long more earnestly to be
loosed, than he did for deliverance from its taint and its power. Hence he
dwelt much on the holiness of heaven. It was the theme, he has often
assured me, of his refreshing meditation, when his mind was depressed, as
he looked forward to the perils, and sufferings, and privations, which he
might be called to undergo in this world. I remember one day, while I was
with him, his telling me, that while reading the Scriptures that morning,
on this his favourite subject, his mind was so wrapt in contemplation,
that he forgot, for the moment, where he was; till, when his consciousness
returned, on looking into his own heart, polluted with sin, and then into
the world around him, ‘lying in the wicked one,’ he burst into tears. He
was possessed of much tenderness of spiritual feeling, and was most
vividly impressed by every Scripture truth which he received. In one
respect, much of the same mind dwelt in him, which was in Christ Jesus: he
felt much for his brethren of mankind, and his heart bled for the
condition of those who were not in Christ; yet was he possessed with the
keenest indignation at iniquity, and every exhibition of it provoked his
holy abhorrence. His was a character most exquisitely formed for Christian
friendship. Possessed naturally of the most amiable dispositions, they
were rendered still more so by the Spirit of God which dwelt in him. In
his friends, he encouraged the most unbounded confidence; and his was a
heart, into which, when distressed or disgusted, they could unbosom every
thought which grieved them, and find a balsam for every wound. I speak not
this at random. I know it from sweet experience."
I cannot conclude the
memoir of my beloved friend, without once more soliciting the attention of
the reader to the prominent feature of his religion and of his religious
character, — his devoted zeal to the glory of Christ in combination with
the salvation of men. It is obvious, that, to diffuse the knowledge of the
gospel in the world, constituted his life and happiness. The subject
pervades all his papers, runs through all his letters, and at length,
entirely engrossed his thoughts. In his case, it was nothing assumed or
professed, but something growing out of the very principles of his faith,
and constituting a chief element in his religion. He had no conception of
Christianity, apart from the love of extending it. That which constituted
its glory, in his eyes, was its perfect adaptation to the wants and
wretchedness of men; and the more he knew the evil, and the better he
became acquainted with the remedy, the more powerfully he felt the
obligation to preach the gospel to every creature.
His devotedness, therefore,
was not so much an act of obedience to a law, as the operation of the
great principle of the new economy, and of the new nature, LOVE —
grateful love to God, and compassionate love to men. Hence the calmness
and rationality, as well as the ardour of his mind, in reference to this
great subject. He did not regard himself as making an unreasonable
sacrifice, though to certain consequences he was acutely sensible; or as
called to a work of a peculiar and unprecedented nature; but merely as
discharging a common obligation, and engaging in a service which ought, in
one way or other, to be attended to by every disciple of Jesus. He felt
that much had been forgiven him, he therefore loved much. As he grew in
spirituality of mind, he grew not only in deadness to the world, but in
indifference to those literary and scientific pursuits in which he was so
well qualified to excel, and in his admiration of the superior excellence
of the knowledge of Christ Jesus his Lord. He despised them, not because
he was ignorant of them, or because they were beyond his reach; but after
he had subdued the difficulties of the ascent, and had their loftiest
summits full in view! Even then, he did not disregard them as worthless,
but as less worthy than another and a higher object. While the laurels,
which he had so honourably won, were yet fresh and unwithered on his brow,
he laid them at the foot of the cross, and with high Christian magnanimity
declared, "that what things were gain to him, those he counted loss for
Christ."
When I speak of his
indifference to the pursuits of philosophy, I mean not to say that he
neglected the cultivation of his mind, or that he turned aside from any of
the paths of learning and science which he was capable of exploring. I
only mean to say that he pursued them no longer for their own sake, for
the gratification which they afforded, or for the earthly rewards which
they might have secured. They became subordinate, in his mind, to an
ulterior object. In as far as they might fit him for more eminent
usefulness, he considered them important, and studied them with diligence
and unconquerable determination.
To the ardour of his spirit
in the acquisition of the qualifications which he felt to be necessary for
the service of Christ, and the intense working of his mind in regard to
that service itself, I have no doubt he fell a sacrifice. Many an
individual has been a martyr for Christ, who has not expired on a gibbet,
or suffered at the stake. Zeal for the glory and the house of God is a
consuming principle. It burnt up the Saviour himself, and it has brought
to a speedy termination the career of many a disciple. Such, I feel
assured, was the case of John Urquhart. His feelings became morbid; but
this was the result of weakness of body, rather than of any improper or
undue exercise of the mind. The sensibilities of his nature were indeed
refined and excited by his Christian principles, till they became too
powerful for the bodily structure on which they operated. But this
reflects no discredit on Christianity. It only illustrates the weakness of
man, and the disproportion of his powers to the magnitude and the lofty
enterprise of the gospel. Granting that it killed the individual, it only
follows, that the event is mysterious, not that a loss has been sustained.
That the reward of the sufferer is secured, we have the best reason for
believing; and that gain, rather than damage, may arise to the cause of
the Saviour, eternity will enable us to discover.
Did the present state
terminate the being and the bliss of man, we might well be discouraged by
the occurrence of such early deaths, from cultivating our intellectual
faculties. The uncertainty of enjoying them for any length of time is so
great, that the labour of the cultivation might seem disproportioned to
the result. But if all intellectual and moral worth shall find place and
scope in the eternal world, the case is very different. No mental
attainment can be lost. The language and the literature, and the science
of heaven may be different from all that we have known on earth; but the
capacity which grasped the word and the works of God in this world, and
which was improved by the influence which is from above, will operate in
proportion to its strength and its spirituality on the things of eternity.
If the reader is young, and
enterprising; if he possesses talents, and if those talents are
cultivated; let me submit to such an individual the consideration of the
example, and the lessons recorded in these memoirs. I mean the example and
the lesson of high devotedness. For what purpose has God endowed you with
his gifts, and blessed you with his grace? What is your proposed field of
glory or enterprise? Have you devoted your life and your talents to
Christ, or to the business and the ambition of this world? Are you a
Christian? Then is there one object placed before you, and one course
marked out for you to follow. "None of us liveth to himself." Every
Christian is Christ’s property and Christ’s servant. The service of
Christ, the glory of Christ, and the salvation of the world, are as much
the interest of the weakest believer as they were that of the apostle
Paul. Every Christian owes his all to the Redeemer; and Paul could owe no
more. We may not be honoured to preach the gospel, or to die for the
gospel; but to live and die to Christ is the honour and privilege of all
his saints. The life which is consecrated to his service, and the talents
which are devoted to his glory, will be found the happiest, and, in the
end, the most productive. It may be short, it may be long, as the will of
God shall determine; that is not our concern, and ought not to cause our
anxiety. But it ought to be our anxious and unceasing desire, that,
"whether we live, we may live unto the Lord; or whether we die, we may die
unto the Lord: that, whether we live or die, we may be the Lord’s." We are
constantly reminded, by the events which occur, of the truth of the
Scriptures: "All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower
of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away." While
these things humble us, and remind us of our sinfulness and our mortality,
we still have hope. "We are cast down, but not destroyed; we are
sorrowful, yet always rejoicing:" for, "while the world passeth away, and
the lust thereof;" we know that "he that doeth the will of God abideth for
ever."