Chapter XII: Letter LXII: From Mr. Serge to Sir Murdoch Maclairn

_Putney, Dec. 3._

My dear and honoured friend! It is all over with Jeremiah Serge! The public papers will tell you that he is desolate. To-morrow I shall lose sight of her precious remains! But what of that! Do I not see her always before me? Do I not hear her voice, and the blessed consolations she gave me. My name was in the last sigh that conveyed her to her God! Oh! she was a child, Sir Murdoch, worthy of a heavenly Father! She was too good to be lent me long! and yet I never forgot to be grateful for the loan: my daily prayers were thanks to God, for the blessings she imparted! so affectionate, so gentle, so wise, and yet so young! What a bulwark of defence has my age and weakness lost! I do not know why I write to you; but I am so oppressed by my thoughts, and my kind friends here fatigue me. They cannot help it. They do for the best; but what can be done for me! Is it not hard to see the sapless trunk left to the wintry blasts; and the blossoms of the spring cut off? If my child had been spared only a _little while_, she might have closed my eyes, and I had been at rest. But I must not murmur against God! My Caroline warned me not to grieve as “one without hope.” And I will hope, Sir Murdoch, that my present feelings will soon effect my deliverance. I shall soon be re-united to my child. I am very ill, and I think it is better to tell you what also disturbs me in this hour of tribulation before I send away this letter. I have not been negligent in regard to my worldly concerns, as these relate to the security of my wife and children; for I lost no time, in executing that duty, after you had so graciously consented to be my children’s friend. But my heart is now set upon seeing you and Malcolm once more before I die. You are a good man, Sir Murdoch, and, in the sight of God, that is the only title that will survive you. I think you will not refuse to come to me: no comfort on earth would be so welcome; but do not delay your journey, if you mean to see me; for indeed I am sinking fast. My poor wife is on a sick bed; she might have foreseen the blow more than she did, but we have all our faults! Poor soul! She finds at this hour that life needs more than a doublet of silk, to guard the pilgrim in his rough journey! I am sure Malcolm will second me in my request. Tell him, that poor Caroline spoke of him not an hour before she died, and called him her good brother Malcolm.

God preserve you, Sir Murdoch, from knowing the sorrow which fills the
heart of

JEREMIAH SERGE.