Chapter XII: Illness and Death of Bobbin, 1797 (1)

Illness of Bobbin—Letters of Bobbin and her father’s replies—Dress
minutes at the opera—Hoping against hope—Bobbin’s death—Seeking
for consolation—Retrospection—Beginning of diary—Correspondence.

This year, so fatal to every worldly hope, which overturned every prospect I had in life, and changed me almost as much as a new creation, opened in the common manner by my going to London to attend the meeting of the Board [of Agriculture]. I brought my dear angelic child[167] with me, who went to school in January, in good health but never in good spirits, for she abhorred school. Oh! what infatuation ever to send her to one. In the country she had health, spirits, and strength, as if there were not enough with what she might have learned at home, instead of going to that region of constraint and death, Camden House.

The rules for health are detestable, no air but in a measured, formal walk, and all running and quick motion prohibited. Preposterous! She slept with a girl who could hear only with one ear, and so ever laid on one side; and my dear child could do no otherwise afterwards without pain; because the vile beds are so small that they must both lie the same way. The school discipline of all sorts, the food, &c. &c., all contributed. She never had a bellyful at breakfast. Detestable this at the expense of 80_l._ a year. Oh! how I regret ever putting her there, or to any other, for they are all theatres of knavery, illiberality, and infamy.[168] Upon her being ill in March I took her to my lodgings in Jermyn Street, where Dr. Turton attended her till April 12, when I carried her to Bradfield. He certainly mistook her case entirely, not believing in a consumption, and by physic brought her so low that she declined hourly; he stuffed her with medicine at a time when sending her at once to Bristol or even to Bradfield she went little more than skin and bone, with prescriptions for more physicking under a stupid fellow at Bury, who purged her till she was a spectre. On June 13 she went to Smiths’ (Bradfield neighbours), and there complained ‘that such a young girl as I who came for air and exercise should be _thus crammed with physic_.’ Poor thing! her instinct told her it was wrong, but she submitted.

BOBBIN’ (MARTHA YOUNG).
_From a miniature by Plymer._
]

_From Bobbin to her Father_

‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning. Thank you for
it. My strength is much the same as when I saw you; my appetite is
getting better a good deal. Mr. Smith saw me yesterday, and said
it was a running pulse, but that he thought me better. I think if
anything I am better than when I saw you. Thank you for the wine,
which I have not yet received, but suppose it is at Bury. As for
the bad news, I am tired of it. I want, and should very much like,
a nice writing-box to hold pens, ink, paper, all my letters, &c.,
in short everything exact; this is just the thing for a birthday
present. As for sweet things, I do not wish for them particularly;
any little thing that you think wholesome I should be glad of. The
weather [is] as yet so bad that I cannot stir out. Remember me to
the party, and thank Mr. Kedington for waking me at six o’clock on
the Monday morning.

‘Believe me, dear Papa,
‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.’

_His Reply_

‘My dear Bobbin,—I am much obliged to you for the description you
gave me of your health, but I beg you will repeat it directly, and
do not forget appetite, pulse, sleep, pains, swelled legs, fever,
exercise on change of weather, thirst, &c., for I am extremely
anxious to know how you go on. I have looked at a great many
writing-boxes, but find none yet under 1_l._ 5_s._ and 1_l._
11_s._ 6_d._, but I hear there are good ones to be had at 15_s._
The moment I can find one I will buy and send it packed full of
seals, or something else.

‘Politics are melancholy, for the fleet is satisfied, the army is
not, and the same spirit [there] would be dreadful. To-day, it is
said, the Duke of York has declared the intention of raising the
pay of Infantry, which is wise, but it may not be done to satisfy
them, and in a moment they might be masters of the Tower, Bank,
Parliament, &c.; however, let us hope that measures will be taken
to prepare for the worst. The French will make no peace with us,
but bring all their force to the coast and ruin us, if they can,
by invasion expense.

‘I cannot read half your mother’s letter; but enough to see that
she is very angry, for I know not what. I am not paid, and have
nothing to send.

‘Dear Bobbin,
‘Yours affectionately,
‘A. Y.’

_Bobbin to her Father_

‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning, for which I
thank you. My appetite is a great deal better, pulse rather too
quick, sleep _very well_, no pains, no swelled legs, no fever. We
have had Sunday, Monday, and yesterday fine, and only those since
you went. I walked in the Stone Walk. Pray send my writing-box as
soon as you can, and, as you see by this, I want writing paper to
write to you and Griffiths; I hope you will put some into it. I
think one under a guinea will not be of any use to me. I saw Mr.
and Mrs. O. Oakes[169] in Bury yesterday, they have made but a
short stay in town. I am much obliged to you for the wine and
porter, which I have received safe. Remember me to the party,
write soon, and believe me, dear papa,

‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.

‘_N.B._—By the time Mr. Kedington comes his strawberries will be
ripe; ask him if he would give me a few if I send for them. Pray
remember a patent lock, so it will be a guinea besides that.’

_Reply_

‘I was very glad to receive my dear Bobbin’s letter, for it gives
the best account I have yet received of your health. As you wish a
guinea box you shall have one, though I can very ill afford it at
present. As to your mother’s ideas of my being paid, nothing can
be said to it, if she knows better than I do. Her intelligence
that I have sold the Exchequer annuity is like all the rest; if it
is of longer duration than I supposed, so much the better for
those who have bought it of me, and the worse for me.

‘Lady Hawkesbury, Lady Hervey and Lady Erne[170] have given the
Macklins and me some opera tickets several times—last night for
the benefit of the sailors’ widows and orphans, under Lord Jarvis;
but sailors are not in fashion; the pit was not more than
two-thirds full. They go out of town on Sunday or Monday. The
weather has been very hot. Yesterday I could scarcely get from the
Board home, for coaches and crowds along all the streets near St.
James’s, &c. The King is low-spirited at the thought of parting
from his daughter. The Duchy of Wurtemburg is in the very jaws of
France, and the prospect not favourable. Every person that comes
from France asserts the same, that their whole force will be
brought against this country. I have been sent for, and had an
interview with a cabinet minister on arming the landed interest;
but I fear nothing will be done effectually, though they seemed
determined that _something_ shall. Don’t mention this out of the
family. I will put paper in your box, changing the lock will take
some time, but you shall have it, I hope, on Monday. Continue to
write me. Tell your M. [mother] I have no money; therefore, why
worry me? She might as well ask blood from a post.

‘Dear Bobbin,
‘Yours affectionately,
‘A. Y.’

_From Bobbin to her Father_

‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning and am
extremely obliged to you for your attention about the writing-box,
but if it be not purchased, I have seen one at Rackham’s which
suits me exactly in every respect, therefore, if you will send a
patent lock, I can have it put on. The price of Rackham’s is a
guinea, but if you have bought it I shall like it as well. My
chief complaints are weakness, and a very bad cough, nothing else
that I mind. I dare say you were entertained at the opera.

‘I have just got six of the most beautiful little rabbits you ever
saw, they skip about so prettily, you can’t think, and I shall
have some more in a few weeks. Having had so much physic I am
right down tired of it. I take it still twice a day; my appetite
is better. What can you mind politics so for? I don’t think about
them. Well, good bye, and believe me, dear papa,

‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.

‘Saturday.’

_His Reply_

‘Monday.

‘My dear Bobbin,—I received your letter this morning, and am sorry
it did not come in time to stop my buying this box, which is
twenty-five shillings besides carriage; but I hope you will like
it; the lock is good and not common. I cannot afford a patent one,
which is fifteen shillings alone.

‘I am sorry to hear you have a bad cough and are weak. God send
this fine weather may make you well soon. Continue to let me know
how you do, particularly your cough. You do not say if you are
upon the whole better, nor whether you have got on horseback yet,
which I must have you do, at all events, or you will not get well
at all. Be more particular—what physic do you take?

‘You are right not to trouble yourself about politics. Mr. and
Mrs. M. went out of town this morning.

‘The Directory of France has ordered all my works on Agriculture
to be translated in twenty volumes, and their friends here would
guillotine the author. The “Travels” sell greatly there in French,
the third edition coming.

‘Adieu.
‘Yours affectionately.

‘I have just time to send this [writing-box]. I intended it by
coach, but as I am sure the seals would be ground all to powder, I
think it best by waggon, which will explain the reason of your not
having it so soon as I hoped and promised, and I think you would
be vexed to have your collection spoiled. It goes by Bury waggon.
Your pincushion box won’t come in it.’

_Note from A. Y. to Bonnet_ (_Farm Bailiff_)

‘Miss Patty is to ride out in the chaise or whisky, or on double
horse, whenever Bonnet is not obliged to be absent from the farm.
If he is at market when the days are long and Miss Patty rises
early, she can have a ride before breakfast.

‘Bonnet to pay Miss Patty a shilling a week.’

_To Bobbin from her Father_

‘My dear Bobbin,—I know your understanding, and therefore shall
not write to you, young as you are, as a child. Mrs. Oakes writes
me from Smith that Dr. T. ordered you physic which you have not
taken, at the same time that he does not at all like your case.
Now this is a very serious business for your health, and
consequently it makes me very uneasy. You are extremely weak by
your own account, and steel is to strengthen. I gave it with my
own hand to my father for a year, and with great effect; why you
should doubt the efficacy of anything prescribed by so great a
physician is more than I can understand; as to ill tastes, it is
beneath common sense to listen to anything of the sort.

‘But, my dear Bobbin, you ought to bring some circumstances to
your recollection; the expense I have been at is more than I can
afford, and I am now paying your school the same as if present. It
is surely incumbent on you to consider, that when a father is
doing everything upon earth for your good, yet you ought from
feelings of gratitude and generosity to do all you can for
yourself. I ask nothing but what another would positively insist
on, and would order violent means of securing obedience; I, on the
contrary, rely on your own feelings and your good sense, and so
relying, I do beg that you will take everything ordered without
murmur or hesitation, for I assure you it is with astonishment I
hear that you have omitted this some time. Call your understanding
to your aid, and ask yourself what you can think must be my
surprise at hearing that while all around you are anxious for your
health, that you alone will be careless of it. It is a much worse
thing than ill health, for I had rather hear you were worse in
body than that you had a malady in your heart or head. Think
seriously of such conduct, and I am confident it will cease, for I
know your disposition, and that makes me the more surprised, for
knowing your good temper so well as I do it is perfectly
astonishing. I am sure I shall hear, and it will be with great
pleasure, that you are acting worthy of yourself; and having so
much patience in your illness, you will show it in this, as in so
many other things. (The first cheap lobsters I shall send you
three by mail, the weather being hot.) I think you are not strong
enough to ride a dicky alone. Surely double-horse would be better,
but if you have tried you must be able to judge. Pray continue to
write me constantly, for you must know how anxious I am to hear
exactly your case.

‘God bless you, my dear girl. I talk of your physician and your
physic, but God forbid you trusted to either without asking His
blessing regularly. You tell me that you always say your prayers;
you cannot deceive God, and I hope you have a reliance on His
blessing, which you cannot have if you do not ask it, and gain the
habit of asking it.’

_From Bobbin to her Father_

‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter yesterday. Thank you for
your advice; I had taken the _steel_ and _draughts_ long before I
received it, besides which I take some more stuff[171] ... and ask
him [the doctor] likewise how long the steel, &c., must be taken
before you feel any effect from it, for one might take physic for
ever without receiving any benefit. Let not my giving you my
opinion make you think that I do not take mine regularly; I assure
you I do. My dear papa, how can you imagine that I should ever
neglect my prayers? No! believe me, I know my duty too well for
that. I believe _once_, the last time I was at the cottage, when I
was too weak to say them out of bed, I then said them when Betty
brought the asses’ milk. One morning I fell asleep and forgot
them; I thought of it at night, and told her to remind me of them,
which she did—this she can tell you. I thank you for some fine cod
and lobsters, which came very fresh and good.

‘I am much the same as when I wrote last, my cough very
troublesome still. I called on Mrs. Belgrave, she was gone to
town. Adieu, my dear papa. Believe me

‘Your dutiful and affectionate Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.’

_His Reply_

‘Saturday.

‘My dearest Bobbin,—The moment your letter came I went to Dr.
Turton, but he was, as I feared he would be, out. However, I shall
call on him this evening and send you his answer by to-morrow
night’s mail, if he is not gone to Kent, which I hope he will not
be. If so, I cannot see him till Tuesday, as I shall be Sunday and
Monday at the Duke of Bedford’s.... I am of opinion you should
leave off steel till you have my answer.... It is to give you
strength.... You are a very good girl for having taken it, and
equally for saying your prayers. Always preserve the habit of
doing so. God protect and bless you!

‘Two 64’s and fifteen merchantmen have left the mutineers under a
heavy fine, and it is expected the rest will do the same very
soon, and then Admiral Parker and Co. will swing. Great
expectations of a peace. Tell Mary, St. Paul’s would come to B. as
soon as Dr. T., but her thought was a good one.

‘Write me again soon.

‘Yours very affectionately,
‘A. Y.’

_To Bobbin from her Father_

‘Jermyn Street: Friday.

‘My dear Bobbin,—As I desired you to write to me twice a week I
expected a letter yesterday, but hope when I go by and by to the
[Board] that I shall find one from you, for I am very anxious to
hear how you do, and what Dr. Turton has ordered Smith to do for
you. I had a very disagreeable journey to town, and did not sleep
a minute, but, thank God, did not take cold; went to bed next
night at nine o’clock and recovered the fatigue. The Macklins and
Kedington were in a good deal of rain. They have been at two
plays; I go to none. K. lives with us, and I am to charge him what
he costs. They will go somewhere every night. I order everything
just as usual before I go to the Board, and though I am to pay no
more than my common expenses when alone, yet, as I necessarily
live much better, I think it but fair to be quite economical, and
we have a great deal of pleasant laugh at my pinching them, and
not permitting their being extravagant. I allow no scrap of a
supper which they make a rout about, for they come hungry as
hounds from the play, and drink porter when they can get it; the
wine I lock up, and have been twice in bed when they return. If
you saw them devour at breakfast you would laugh; K., who is to be
with the Oakes’ when they come (we have hired Merlin’s for them),
threatens that he will give us nothing but potatoes.

‘The news you see. It is said that there will be mutinies in the
army as soon as the camps are formed; if so, and no immense army
of property to awe them, the very worst of consequences may be
expected. Ireland is in a dreadful state of alarm and
apprehension—in a word, everything wears a threatening appearance,
and nothing but the greatest wisdom and prudence can save us.

‘I hope you have got rid of your lameness, and use your legs much
more than you did when I was with you. Pray, my dear Bobbin, exert
yourself, and take much air and exercise on the Stone Walk, which
will do in all weathers except rain. I have not seen anybody yet
except Lord Egremont.

‘Tell Arthur to write to the Lewes bookseller that the Board buys
two hundred copies and finds the plates, that is the copper, so
that it must be to him not a hazardous speculation. Adieu, my dear
girl.

‘Yours affectionately,
‘A. Y.’

_Bobbin’s Reply_

‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning. I am sorry you
had not a pleasant journey. Every day since you went we have had
nothing but rain all day (most part of the night) long, so I have
not been able to stir out, only in the chaise. I am much the same
as when I saw you, but hope that when we have fine weather I shall
get better. My leg _is_ a great deal better. Mr. Smith advises
porter, the beer is so new.... If you like to send a quarter cask
my mother will pay the carriage; she has no opinion of Bury
porter. If you send it by the Diss waggon let me know when it
comes; if you don’t like this, order Bonnet to get me some at
Bury. What terrible news you write me in your letter. I really
have nothing more to tell you; write soon, and believe me

‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.

‘N.B.—Papa, you said you would send me some red wine, as there is
none drank here; he speaks very much against my drinking so much
water without red wine in it, because my ankles swell so much.’

The following were memoranda noted at the time:—

The 11th of June I went to the Duke of Bedford’s sheep-shearing, and got back (to London) on the 16th. The next day I had a letter that terrified me so much that on the 19th I set off for Suffolk, and went directly to Troston Hall (the seat of Capel Lofft, Esq.), where the dear dear child had been carried some days before for change of air. Good God! what a situation I found her in, worse than I had conceived possible in so short a time, so helpless and immovable as to be carried from a chair to her bed, evidently in one of those cruel consumptive cases which flatter by some favourable symptoms, yet with fatal ones that almost deprive hope.

Good Heaven! what have I to look forward to if I lose my child? For her own sake I know not what to hope; the world is so full of wickedness and misery, and she must be so innocent and free from crimes, that her lot hereafter, I hope and have confidence in the mercies of God, will be blessed. Ought I then, but from selfishness, to wish her here? Yet a fond father’s feelings will be predominant. Oh, save her, save her, is my prayer to God Almighty!

Dr. Wollaston, the eminent physician at Bury, has been consulted; he gives little hopes, but advises a milk and vegetable diet, and said that sea air and a humid mild climate would be good. I next wrote to Dr. Thornton, who recommended an egg and meat diet; and Mr. Martyn, in a letter, desired me to try the inhaling of ether; in fact, all has been done that the urgency of the case required, but, alas! she is past the assistance of all human power. After remaining a week at Troston I wrote into Lincolnshire for a house at Boston, with a view to be near the sea, in case she should be able to support a short voyage; and the air of that low place is reckoned preferable to the keen air of Bradfield. We travelled with slow and short journeys on July 5 to Bradon—still more exhausted; on the 6th to Wisbeach—no alteration yet from the change of air; on the 7th only to Long Sutton—worse, greatly fatigued, and a very bad night. Oh! the lacerated feelings of my wounded heart! To see the child of my tenderest affection in such a state! growing hourly weaker and more emaciated, during the last week being even unable to stand. It is beyond my power to describe what is struggling within me! My sorrow has softened me and wrings my very heart strings! How hard does it appear submissively to bow to that text—‘He that loveth son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me.’ I have but one consolation, which prevents my utter depression and despair. I trust in the goodness of her Almighty Creator and in the merits of her blessed Redeemer, that They will, in the mercy of omnipotence, pardon what slight offences she may have been guilty of, and receive her into that heavenly mansion which I humbly hope her innocence may expect. I pray fervently for Their mercy, and only wish that I was worthy of being heard. May my future life be such as to make an hereafter the great view, aim, and end of my remaining life! The 8th we reached Spalding, too much fatigued to go on, thinking that an air so different from what she had left might have given some ease. Vain hope! No effort of the kind appears. The 11th we arrived at Boston, and she bore the journey well. Alas! it was her final stage in this world!

The next day she was still worse, but even now gave one of those traits which displayed her delicacy, for upon finding that her mother was detaining Dr. Wilson with questions, she reminded her of it by saying, ‘Mamma, you forget there are other ladies wanting the doctor.’ On the 13th the crisis of her sufferings was approaching; she whispered to me as I sat by her bedside, ‘I hope you pray for me.’ At about eleven o’clock she asked her sister Mary to read a prayer as usual, and attended with apparent fervour, putting her hands together in the attitude of devotion.

My poor dear child breathed her last at twelve minutes past one o’clock on Friday morning, the 14th. I was on my knees at her bedside in great agony of mind. She looked at me and said, ‘_Pray for me_.’ I assured her that I did. She replied, ‘_Do it now, papa_,’ on which I poured forth aloud ejaculations to the Almighty, that He would have compassion and heal the affliction of my child. She clasped her hands together in the attitude of praying, and when I had done said, ‘Amen’—her last words.

Thank God of His infinite mercy she expired without a groan, or her face being the least agitated; her inspirations were gradually changed from being very distressing, till they became lost in gentleness, and at the last she went off like a bird.

Thus fled one of the sweetest tempers and, for her years, one of the best understandings that I ever met with. She was a companion for mature years, for there was in her none of the childish stuff of most girls. And there fled the first hope of my life, the child on whom I wished to rest in the affliction of my age, should I reach such a period. But the Almighty’s will be done, and may I turn the event to the benefit of my soul, and in such a manner as to trust through the mediation of my Redeemer to become worthy to join her in a better world. Her disposition was most affectionate, gentle, and humane; to her inferiors, full of humility, and always ready to perform acts of beneficence, thus attaching the poor by her charity, whilst she was equally courted by those above her for that fascination of manners possessing the attraction of the loadstone. Her countenance in health beamed with animation, and her dimpled cheeks smiled with the beauty of a Hebe. Dear interesting creature! Endowed, too, with a sensibility that shrunk from the gaze, her appearance in society produced [_here the sentence breaks off_].

What a scene have I described for a fond father to witness!

On the 15th the Rev. S. Partridge and his wife came to give us what comfort they could, and took us in a most kind and friendly manner to their house. I determined that her remains should be carried to Bradfield, having a warm hope of being animated to a more fervent devotion by the idea of her ashes being deposited in our own village church. To the departed spirit it is less than nothing—to me it may do good, and I have need of working out my salvation with fear and trembling. I feel that a wretched and depressed state of mind leads me to more Christian thoughts and more favourable to religious impressions than prosperity, or ease, or happiness, as it is called, and therefore hope I am justified in doing it; and if my family think the same, they also will derive benefit.

After a day passed in deep sorrow, Mr. Partridge read one of his sermons on the intermediate state of departed souls, and which I afterwards found was one of Jortin’s.[172] From many passages of Scripture it was made clear that they are conscious, and if good in this life, happy.

On Monday, the 17th, I arrived at Bradfield, where every object is full of the dear deceased.

On going into the library the window looks into the little garden in which I have so many times seen her happy. O gracious and merciful God! pardon me for allowing any earthly object thus to engross my feelings and overpower my whole soul! But what were they not on seeing and weeping over the roses, variegated sage, and other plants she had set there and cultivated with her dear hands. But every room, every spot is full of her, and it sinks my very heart to see them. Tuesday evening, the 18th, her remains arrived, and at midnight her brother read the service over her in a most impressive manner. I buried her in my pew, fixing the coffin so that when I kneel it will be between her head and her dear heart. This I did as a means of preserving the grief I feel, and hope to feel while breath is in my body. It turns all my views to an hereafter, and fills my mind with earnest wishes, that when the great Author of my existence may please to take me I may join my child in a better world.

O merciful Saviour, that took on Thee our nature and feelings, grant me Thy Holy Spirit to confirm and strengthen these sentiments; to repent of all my sins and errors, and enable me for the rest of my days to look steadily towards that better world where, I trust, the innocence of my child, united with her piety, have given her a place. Sure, sure, I shall pray with a more fervent and sincere devotion over the remains of her whom I so much wish, when it pleases Heaven, that I may join. This was my motive.

The 19th I went into a little chamber which I had neatly fitted up about three years ago. My dear child had decorated it with some drawings and placed her books on the shelves, and left it in that order and regularity which followed all her actions. I burst into tears while viewing it, and felt such a depression at my heart that I thought I should have sunk on the floor. It shall never be altered, but everything continued as she left it.

_20th._—Again looked at her garden, and a new one she had marked out and planted under a weeping willow. No day arrives but some new object is presented to move all the springs of affection and regret; and what day can pass in which these melancholy feelings will not predominate? In the meantime I read the Scriptures, and Jortin and other sermons, with an attention I never paid before; and may God of His mercy confirm this disposition, and enable me thus to turn this heavy misfortune to the benefit of my soul. Dispositions which company, travelling, and other pursuits would have tended to banish, I wish to cherish; a melancholy has produced in me a more earnest desire to be reconciled to God than any other event of my life, and proves that of all the medicines of the soul, sorrow is perhaps the most powerful.

Business, pleasure, and the world, tend only to stifle this seriousness of thought, and to prevent the mind from looking into itself and examining the foundation of all its future hopes. For these three days I have continued perusing no books but the New Testament and sermons, of which I have read many.

_21st._—Hoed part of my dear child’s garden under the window, and carried her bonnet and cap to her chamber. They produced many tears, for I yet continue weak as a babe. Read the whole Gospel of St. John, two sermons of Tillotson on the state of the blessed, and two of Dr. Horne’s on the purification of the mind by troubles and the government of the thoughts. I had before in this week read all the Epistles, the Hebrews, and the Acts of the Apostles, and also Bryant’s ‘Authenticity of the Scriptures.’ Such studies are my only consolation. I give full attention, and hope for the blessing of God’s Holy Spirit, that I may not let it be vain, or ever suffer the world to wipe out this taste for the things that concern another world. I attempt the regulation of my thoughts, and to contemplate the goodness and mercy of the Deity; but my misery for the irreparable loss I have suffered yet weighs me down.

_22nd._—Hoed the rest of her garden. Symonds and Carter spent the day at the Hall. I wish they had not come together, I wanted conversation with them separately on the question I had read a good deal of, the sleep of the soul after death till the resurrection.

Symonds will not admit that we can draw any satisfactory conclusion for or against it, but Carter allows Dr. Jortin’s reasoning in his sermon on that subject. In the evening I read what Dr. H. More[173] says upon the subject, who is strenuously against it. A state of insensibility is a dreadful idea, and I find consolation in the conviction that my dear girl is now happy.

_23rd._—Sunday; passed it, I hope, like a Christian. At church sitting over the remains of my child! Oh! what a train of feelings absorbed my soul. In the evening read St. Luke’s Gospel and took a most heart-sinking melancholy walk. I cannot yet bring my mind to sufficient tranquillity to throw into one little memoir these and other particulars.

Examined the willows she planted on the island. Oh! that they were thriving oaks that promised a longer duration, but they may last as long as anybody that will care for the planter. Continue to read Scripture, and some of Secker’s[174] and Ogden’s[175] sermons, and again began ‘Bryant on Christianity.’ I pray to God with all the fervency I feel to give me the grace of His Holy Spirit, that I may turn this loss to the benefit of my soul. Dr. Jortin, in his seventeenth sermon, most truly says, ‘It is adversity which seizes upon the future as prosperity dwells upon the present.’ On the 25th I read Littleton’s[176] ‘Conversion and Apostleship of St. Paul.’ I had brought down from London a new political pamphlet of Howlett’s on a subject that was once interesting, but I can attend to nothing except inquiries which in some degree connect with that habit of mind which flows from my recent loss.

Mrs. —— called to persuade me into company for regaining cheerfulness. Alas! it will come, I fear, much too soon, and what is it good for? Sorrow is the best physician to heal a soul that has been too careless in its duty to God.

Will the world, and pleasure, and society contribute like grief to secure me a probability of joining in another world the spirit of her I mourn?

_26th._—I read part of Dr. Clarke’s[177] ‘Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God,’ as much as I could understand without too intense an application, and then part of ‘Butler’s Analogy.’ Prayed to the Almighty in the middle of the day. The morning is the proper time, but when we are tired and sleepy, the evening I think an improper period to offer either thanksgiving or petitions to the Divine goodness.

Why, oh! why must we have misfortune and sorrow to make us sensible of our duty to our heavenly Father and our Saviour and Redeemer? How difficult to instil a right attention into young people.

I am, however, thankful that my dear child was naturally serious and, I believe, well disposed in this respect; with what joy I now read the following passage in a letter I received from her while she was ill at Bradfield before I came down: ‘My dear papa, how can you imagine that I should ever neglect my prayers? No! believe me, I know my duty too well for that.’

What now would be the idea of any improvement or accomplishment compared with the least trait like this?

_27th._—Called for a few minutes on some neighbours. They all want me to dine with them, but such society to a mind diseased yields no food for reflection, and is, therefore, not fit for me. I could associate with nobody with comfort, but those whose religious acquirements could tend to strengthen my present habits.

I continue to read Butler, also two sermons by Conybeare[178] on angels; looked at the miniature which my wife has of the dear girl, a most striking likeness by Plymer;[179] wept over it with feelings easier imagined than described. I will have a copy of it; ’twill serve, at least, as a melancholy remembrance, and, I hope, recall my mind should it ever wander from the lamented original.

_28th._—Finished Butler’s ‘Analogy.’ It does not quite answer the idea I had formed of him, though a powerful work; but he demands a second perusal, but does not even then promise to be perfectly clear. Read also Mr. Locke’s ‘Reasonableness of Christianity,’ which is a luminous convincing work, and must have done great good. Watered dear Bobbin’s garden and read over her letters. She had, for her early years, a most uncommon understanding and a penetration into character wonderful for the age of fourteen. On reviewing her last illness I am filled with nothing but the most poignant regret and self-condemnation for putting so much reliance in the medical tribe, for she had the personal attendance or correspondence of five physicians and none agreed. I did for the best and spared nothing, but had she been a pauper in a village she would, I verily think, have been alive and hearty. Such are the blessings of money; it has cost me 100_l._ to destroy my child, for I do not think one shilling was bestowed which did not in one way or other do mischief.

Whilst I was in much anxiety about my child’s health I bought Mr. Wilberforce on Christianity.[180] I read it coldly at first, but advanced with more attention. It brought me to a better sense of my dangerous state; but I was much involved in hesitation and doubt, and was very far from understanding the doctrinal part of the book. This was well, for it induced me to read it again and again, and it made so much impression upon me that I scarcely knew how to lay it aside. It excited a very insufficient degree of repentance, and a still more insufficient view of my interest in the Great Physician of souls.

It is rather singular that a trifling circumstance at this time first brought me acquainted with Mr. Wilberforce, whose book I had been again perusing for the fourth time with increased pleasure, and to whom I had more than once thought of writing for his opinion on the intermediate state and original sin. On arriving at Boston, what was my surprise on receiving a letter from him relative to Parkinson’s subscription to some book on agriculture, and apologising for the application to a stranger. I seized the pen with eagerness to reply, writing largely about his own book, praising it greatly, and telling him of my wish to apply to him. Should this (I thought) be productive of a connection that might confirm my pious resolution, I might, perhaps, be justified in attributing it to the interposition of God.

I hope that the thought is not presumptuous. Is it the spirit of my sweet girl that is thus friendly to me? How pleasing an idea!

_July 29._—Having excused myself from dining out with the Balgraves, a note from her this morning. But it will not do. Company and the world will only draw off my mind from those religious contemplations and that course of reading which is favourable to prayer, repentance, and reformation. I wish not to lessen my grief or banish my feelings of that sorrow which turns my heart at present to seek God. I dread it will come but too soon; and were it not for this apprehension I should go on my journey to Lincolnshire for the Board directly, but I wish to confirm these feelings and earnestly pray for the Divine grace to preserve them to the extirpation from my heart of love for the world or any of its follies.

[_Note added by A. Y. in 1817._]

Throughout many of the succeeding notes, several expressions occur not all consistent with true evangelical religion; but I would not afterwards alter them, because I wished to ascertain, on the re-perusal of these papers, what was at the moment of my affliction the state of my mind and of my faith; and when I consider what were the books which I read and admired, I cannot be surprised at any such remarks falling from my pen.

I have often reflected on the great mercy and goodness of God in not permitting my religious opinions to be permanently injured by some of the works which it will be found I so eagerly perused at a period when I could not have one moment’s conversation with any truly pious character. Two circumstances probably contributed to this effect: first, the incessant attention which I gave to reading the New Testament; and secondly, my ardent study of Mr. Wilberforce’s ‘Practical Christianity,’ though without thoroughly understanding it.

The solitary life I condemned myself to, or, to speak with more propriety, which alone I relished, while reading sixteen or seventeen hours a day, and in which I consequently rather devoured books than read them, was, I think, very advantageous, and possibly more so in the final result than if my authors had been more truly sound.

I have since perused many works which, had they fallen into my hands at that time, would probably have made me quit my retirement and rush into the society of men who would have conducted me, in my then state of mind, to the utmost lengths of enthusiasm.

The writers I consulted were well calculated to lay a certain solidity of foundation in the great leading truths of Christianity, which formed a basis whereon it was easy afterwards to raise a more evangelical edifice.

In all this business I cannot but admire the goodness of the Almighty in protecting me from many evils to which I might easily have been led by my troubled feelings.

[_Diary continued._]

Read Dr. Isaac Barrow’s sermon on submission to the Divine will. He seems a powerful writer, but his language is debased by expressions void of all dignity. Read a good deal in Barrow on the pre-existence of human souls. Very singular; the texts on which he builds support him very faintly, yet there is a degree of probability in the system consonant to reason.

_30th._—Prayed to God over the remains of my dear child, and the circumstance fills my mind with that melancholy that is not unsuitable to religious feelings. I do not wonder at the custom of the primitive Christians praying at the tombs of the departed, it is an obvious and natural prejudice.

Finished Barrow, and wrote to my friend Mr. Cole to desire he would apply to his neighbour, the learned Bryant, to know his opinion of that question. Began Dr. More on the ‘Immortality of the Soul.’ Capel Lofft spent the day with us; his conversation is ready on any subject, and mine led to serious ones, which he seems to like. We had much that was metaphysical on the soul (pre-existence), a future state, &c. He is of opinion that heaven is not so very different from our ideas of what this world might be, as are commonly entertained; and rightly observes, that if death, evil, anxiety, and disease, with corporeal passions, were banished, this earth would be a heaven; and that the knowledge of one another hereafter is not at all inconsistent with our Saviour’s expression, ‘_in My Father’s house are many mansions_.’

_31st._—Read Littleton’s sermon on the necessity of well husbanding our time. It is excellent, he has thoughts and modes of expanding his observations that are beyond the common run. Laid aside Dr. More on the ‘Immortality of the Soul;’ he gets so high in the region of fancy, and is so full of jargon and supposition, under the formula of demonstrations, that I am disgusted with his farrago; and [there is] so much on witches, apparitions, &c., as to be mere rubbish.

Read Sherlock’s sixth sermon on the ‘Immortality of the Soul,’ which is an admirable one. I see plainly from what I feel upon occasion of the severe, dreadfully severe misfortune that I have met with, that under great afflictions there can be no real consolation but in religion. I have mused and meditated much on what philosophy, as it is called, could afford in such an exigency, but the amount would be no more than the employment of the mind, and preventing its dwelling without interruption on the loss sustained, the comfort to be drawn from it would be weak and vain; but the Gospel offers considerations which bear immediately on the source of the evil; affords matter of consolation in the certainty of another life, and in those promises which meet the yearnings of the distempered soul; diffuses a calm and quiet resignation to the Divine will, under the pleasing hope of seeing those again in the next world whom we have loved tenderly in this. To me it seems that when this wish is founded on a virtuous object here as that of a parent and a child, the very hope is an argument in its favour, because it is perfectly consistent with infinite benevolence to grant it—and the desire must be universal in every human mind.

_August 1._—Read about half of Sherlock on ‘Immortality,’ but my patience was then quite exhausted; the verbiage is such that it sickens one, though I approve the doctrine entirely and agree with him in everything. What a loss! that excellent books for matter should be so written, or rather spun into such endless circumlocutions that time is wasted for want of compression. Read three or four sermons of Littleton—clear, lucid, and impressive.

At night a Dane came, recommended by Sir J. Sinclair. Unfortunate to all my feelings. I refuse dining with all my friends, and to be tormented with a trifler who can speak neither French nor English.

My mind is in a state that cannot bear interruption. I love to mope alone, and reflect on my misery.

_August 2._—Began Scott’s[181] ‘Christian Life,’ but Smythies having sent me the sixth volume of Bishop Newton’s[182] works, containing a dissertation on the ‘Intermediate State,’ I read it with equal eagerness and satisfaction. It exceeds on that subject all I have yet met with. He is of opinion, in which all agree, that good spirits will know each other; and probably, from the parable of Lazarus, have some knowledge of what passes on earth. But that is of little consequence in comparison with the most consoling and comfortable idea contained in the first opinion. And what a call is it to strive with earnestness and ardour to arrive at a situation that will recompense us in so great a degree for every evil and sorrow we can meet with in this world. Can I then hope, by dedicating the rest of my life here to God, to join my dear child hereafter, my mother, my other daughter, and my sister; and should it so please the Almighty in His mercy, my father and brother? Of the females I can have little doubt, or rather none. I know too little of the lives of the others to venture to pronounce. Read also Bishop Newton’s dissertation on the Resurrection, general judgment, and final state of man. They are all excellent, and I rather devoured than read them. These books I must buy to read again with more attention.

_3rd._—The Dane is gone, and therefore I am left to my favourite contemplations. Newton’s dissertations are consoling, for they leave me no doubts about that hideous doctrine, the sleep of the soul, which, however it might have been suited for the dead, is dreadful to those they leave behind. For the rest of my life to know that my dear child is in a state of conscious existence, and consequently happy, is the first of comforts; but to feel the enlivening warmth and light of the sun, thinking that she felt nothing, but slept in the cold grave, would have almost sunk me into it. No! she lives, and as there is reason to believe, the departed spirits have some knowledge of what passes here. What a call is it to conduct myself so as to give no pain to her! Let me imagine myself for ever seen by the spirits of my mother and my child. Let me have a keen feeling of the pain any unworthy action or impure thought would give to them, and of the pleasure they would reap from seeing the reverse; that I was so living as gave them a hope of my joining them hereafter. Let me, if possible, entertain this persuasion till I am convinced of it. I cannot have the thought without being the better man. Oh! guard me against relapsing into evil negligence, the two certain fruits of pleasure and prosperity.

What are the friendships of the world! What consolation, what comfort!

When most wanted it is sure to fail. One has business, another pleasure; one, a family, another a husband, all have something to render them broken reeds to such as are in want; and whether the boon be comfort or money, they prove the same to the touchstone. Who have been my friends? Symonds and Carter are good men, but I have seen them [of late] only once. Who must I name but Ogden, Sherlock, Jortin, Bishop Newton, Butler, Locke, and Clarke? These have told me how to make a friend not like to fail in the time of need, my God and my Saviour. May I strengthen and confirm that friendship and turn it to be a habit of my life! And thou, most gentle spirit of my departed child, if it is allowed thee to look down on earth, be my guardian angel and lead me to everlasting life, to join thee to part no more!

_4th._—Read three of Bishop Sherlock’s sermons and one of Dr. Clarke’s, also some passages in his ‘Demonstration of the Truth of Revealed Religion.’

_5th._—Read a very good sermon of Bishop Sherlock on Redemption, the third in fourth volume. Bishop Butler on human ignorance, excellent. This subject, in the books I have yet read, has not been sufficiently treated, it might be made to refute all the infidels, and draw mankind to a more religious life.

My dear girl’s books are come, her unfinished work, her letters, &c. Melancholy employment to unpack and arrange them in her room. If any difference I think of her with more, rather than with less regret; yet I hope and trust, not without resignation to the Almighty will of the great and good Being whose providence has deprived me of her. I think I feel that this deep regret, this calm sorrow will last my life, and that no events can happen that will ever banish her from my mind. Ranby called and I conversed with him about her till tears would, had I continued it, stopped my speaking. I hate and pity those who avoid talking to the afflicted upon the subject which causes their affliction, it argues a little trifling mind in one party or the other.

Read Bishop Sherlock’s ‘Dissertation respecting the Sense of the Ancients on the Fall of Man,’ which seems to me (who am, however, no judge) a very clear and satisfactory work. He appears to have a singular talent in reconciling seeming difficulties in knotty texts of Scripture, and opens every subject with great clearness and an acute spirit of discrimination.

I suppose there must be some commonplace book of divinity, but I know not whose; a collection of luminous passages from such an immensity of writings as there are on this most important of all subjects would be very useful; yet every man should make his own, selecting such topics and observations as come home to his own case and bosom.

Were I not going now a most uninteresting journey, I would do this for myself. This tour hangs on my mind; nothing would suit my feelings so well as to stay here in my present melancholy gloom, reading divinity, and endeavouring so steadily to fix my mind on eternity and the hope of joining my dear child, as to work a change in my habits, my life, my conversation, and pursuits; and to do all that human frailty will permit to reconcile myself to the Almighty. These thoughts, however, I shall try to preserve in spite of a journey. I will take the New Testament and Wilberforce with me, and read a portion every day, and spend the Sundays in a manner I have never done yet in travelling.