his bed-room; a most awful anxious moment for me, and I never before
prayed so devoutly for any thing in my life, as I now did for a propitious
decision from Mr. Grant. After the first salutation was over, the surgeons
began to examine his leg; and Mr. Grant pointed out to Clare a deep red
streak, that passed up the inside of his thigh, quite up to the body. He
asked my father whether he had any objection to have his leg opened; to
which my father promptly replied "not in the least. I beg you will do any
thing you think proper." Mr. Grant then said it would be necessary to make
a pretty deep incision, to ascertain the state of the inflamed part.
"Proceed as you please, sir," said my father, "I am quite capable of
bearing pain." Mr. Clare then made an incision in the calf of his leg,
three inches deep, quite down to the bone, and five or six inches in
length. The flesh appeared as black as mahogany, and very little blood
flowed. This my father bore without the least flinching. Some cloths were
wrapped round it, and they desired him to lie down, and compose himself a
little. "I will lie down, sir," he replied, "but I hope that I do not
appear discomposed." All this while I stood like a statue, as pale as
ashes, watching every look of Mr. Grant with intense anxiety. "Well, sir,"
said Mr. Grant, "I will consult with Mr. Clare, who understands these
matters quite as well as I do, and, in fact, as well as any surgeon in
England, and we will settle the course you shall follow. Your leg is in a
dreadful state, but we will see what can be done for you."
Mr. Grant now took my father by the hand, and was wishing him good
morning, when my father, holding his hand, firmly raised himself upon his
bed, and said, "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Grant, for the trouble
you have taken to come such a long journey to see me; and my son will most
cheerfully remunerate you. There is, however, one thing more which I shall
request you to do before you leave me. It is that you will give me your
candid and honest opinion of my situation. Have you any well-grounded
hopes of my recovery? If you have not, you will confer a great obligation
upon me by saying so." Doctor Hill, who was standing at the other side of
the bed, prevented any answer, by saying, "Come! come! Mr. Hunt, you are
low spirited; come! come! you must not indulge in any such notions; you
will do very well again by and by." Upon which my father, turning
indignantly round, replied with a firm and rather strong voice, "stand
back, and keep your peace for once, Dr. Hill, and do not expose
yourself--I am neither low-spirited, nor so weak as to be put off by your
common-place cant. Have the modesty, at any rate, to listen with patience
to what I am going to say to Mr. Grant, who appears to be a sensible,
honest man, or else be so obliging as to leave the room." Then, turning
back to Mr. Grant, he said, "I have, sir, contrived so to live as not to
fear to die. You are a perfect stranger to me; but you have the character
of knowing your profession well, and also of being a humane man; at least
my son informs me that you have been induced to take this journey more
from humanity than for your fee. I have therefore, a perfect reliance upon
your judgment with respect to my case; you see that I have nerve to hear
my fate; and it will be a great relief to my mind, and it will afford me
even comparative consolation, to be informed of it from your lips, rather
than be left in suspence. Nay, I appeal to your humanity, to speak the
truth boldly at once, to save my poor afflicted son the pain of
communicating it."
Having said this, my father paused, to receive a reply. Oh! what an
agonising, heart-rending moment was this for me! Mr. Grant took my
father's hand, and seriously delivered himself as follows:--"After what
you have said, sir; after the calm and manly appeal which you have made to
me, and with so laudable and rational a desire to spare pain to the
feelings of your son, I should be doing an injustice to my own sense of
duty, and be imposing upon you, if I were to withhold any longer my honest
opinion; which is this, that, as a mortification had taken place, for many
hours even before Clare first saw you, and as it has approached your body,
I cannot, unless some very extraordinary interposition of Providence shall
occur, see any hopes of your recovery."
My father, who, during this sad speech, had looked him firmly in the face,
calmly and rather cheerfully replied, "I thank you, sir, most sincerely. I
am content! the Lord's will be done! Pray take care of my poor son." The
last words of the Doctor had produced such an awful effect upon me, that,
unperceived by them, I had sunk senseless into a chair.
As soon as I recovered a little I was led out of the room, more dead than
alive; and even at this moment the words of Mr. Grant vibrate afresh upon
my ear. Though I had anticipated such an answer, and had, indeed, no
reason to expect any other, yet when the blow came, it was much more
stunning, much more overwhelming, than I had any idea of. I was dumb with
sorrow; I now, by cruel experience, understood, what dumb sorrow meant. I
could neither speak nor give vent to my feelings by tears. The agony of my
poor sister, who saw enough to convince her what was the fatal sentence,
and who immediately went into violent hysterics, was the first thing that
recalled me to myself. The sight of her distress roused me from my
lethargy; yet it was with a sort of stupor that I moved to her assistance,
and when she had in some degree recovered, my brain was still whirled
round and bewildered. I had received such a shock that all the world
appeared as one vacant blank before my eyes.
Mr. Clare, at length, called my attention to the wish of Mr Grant to
return; and the chaise being brought to the door, he reminded me of the
doctor's fee. I asked Clare what would be proper; to which he replied that
twenty guineas would be handsome. I, however, gave him thirty, with which
he expressed himself very well satisfied; and on his departure he politely
requested that he might be numbered among my friends. I made my friend
Clare promise to return in the evening; and poor Hill, who had eyed with a
mixture of surprise and envy the large sum paid to Mr. Grant, received his
two guineas for his two visits, and left the place, cursing, I have no
doubt, Mr. Grant in his heart, for having spoken out so plainly as to
render his future visits useless, and thereby deprived him of three or
four more guineas in fees.
The moment they were gone I returned to my father, endeavouring to
suppress my sorrow as much as possible. Taking me by the hand, he said,
most tenderly, "My dear son, though I do not feel myself weak, yet, as we
must part so soon, pass as much of your time with me as you conveniently
can; for I feel at present in very sound mind, and I shall be enabled to
give you some good advice, which I hope will be of lasting service to you;
and, as it will be given at such a time as this, I am sure that it will
sink deep into your heart. In the first place you must not give way to
sorrow; for you must be a father to your sister, and to your unfortunate
little brothers, who are at school in London. I shall not for one moment
repine upon my own account. I am not afraid to meet a merciful Creator; he
is not the implacable being that some find it their interest to represent
him. I always have had, and shall, to the last, continue to have, full and
implicit confidence in his loving kindness and mercy. Be you, therefore,
calm and temperate in your grief, and consider that you have a great duty
to perform. It must be your task to comfort your father in his last
moments, when, perhaps, by the exhaustion of his bodily powers, he may
become weak in mind. If this be the Divine will, which, however, may
Heaven avert, be it your care to soothe, to comfort, and to cherish; and,
if possible, collect and controul my wandering senses. Promise me that you
will not leave me long at a time. In you I place my trust, and I know you
will not deceive me." I solemnly assured him that I would not leave the
house. "Nay,["] said he, "do not say so; all our large farms, with two or
three hundred servants, require your attendance, sometimes; but do not
leave me long at a time. I feel no symptoms of my approaching end. Send
for your wife. She will comfort and be a good companion for your sister,
and will assist her to nurse me. I know that you will all make me as
comfortable as you can while I remain here." To which I replied, by
entreating him not to doubt my affectionate attention.
Mr. Clare and Mr. Grant had both told me that they thought it impossible
that he could live more than three days at the most, as the mortification
had approached the vital parts.--As he was a very hearty strong man, with
a sound constitution, it was possible that he might live full three days;
but, nevertheless, as some change might bring on his dissolution much
sooner, he ought, they said, to lose no time in settling his affairs. He,
himself, began on this subject, by saying, "You know that I made my will
since your mother's death, and I see no cause to alter the distribution of
my property. I have dealt fairly by all my children. You will possess the
manor and estate of Glastonbury, by heirship, in addition to what I have
given you. I wish to make a codicil, to appoint you a trustee, in the
place of one of those whom I appointed when you were a minor." My uncle
Powell, my mother's brother, who was named as a trustee, and his attorney,
were, therefore, sent for, and the necessary alteration was made without
delay; and without giving my father any trouble, or uneasiness whatever.
As the mortification encreased, his leg grew less painful, and in the
night he had some sweet sleep; but I could not be prevailed upon to leave
his bed-side for a moment. I devoured every syllable that fell from his
lips; and I thought I had suffered the greatest loss if he required any
thing, and I was not upon the spot to furnish him with it. My sister was
quite knocked up; nature was over-powered; and as I now found the
assistance of Mrs. Hunt to be absolutely necessary, she was sent for in
the morning. Without her we should have been greatly at a loss; for my
poor sister was now more in need of being nursed herself than able to
assist in nursing my father, whom we contrived to keep perfectly easy and
free from any serious pain till his death. His amazing strength of
constitution went beyond the calculation of the doctors; for he lived four
days and nearly five nights, after the mortification had visibly passed
into his body. During the whole of this time, even to the very last, he
was perfectly sensible, and not till he ceased to exist, did he cease to
possess all his faculties in the soundest state.
The next morning after Mr. Grant had been, and confirmed his approaching
end, he begged to have my sister's piano forte brought up into his bed
room; and when he grew fatigued with giving me his kind admonitions, he
was much pleased and refreshed by my sister's playing and singing. He was
always passionately fond of music, and was a tolerable amateur himself,
and it appeared to give him as much pleasure as ever to hear her play and
sing "Angels ever bright and fair," &c. &c. Sacred music was mostly his
choice upon this occasion, yet he would sometimes request a lively and
cheerful air. These tunes frequently lulled him into a sweet sleep, which
he now and then enjoyed for an hour at a time; during which period I never
failed to watch over him with the most pious care, never suffering him to
be disturbed upon any occasion.
During the whole of this time he talked of his approaching dissolution
with the greatest calmness and composure; and he gave orders how he would
be buried, and named those of his servants who should carry him to the
church, to lay him by the side of his dear Elizabeth. He often repeated
Pope's universal prayer, and frequently expressed his gratitude that he
did not feel as his beloved wife Elizabeth had done at her decease, the
moment of which he greatly lamented was clouded with doubts and fears; a
circumstance which he had always attributed to bodily weakness; and he
prayed devoutly to the author of his being not to suffer his mind to be
impaired while he had life in his body. He felt that he had lived the life
of an honest man, and had never failed in strictly doing his duty towards
his neighbours; he declared that he had gone regularly to church, as an
example to his servants and his family, but believed that one private act
of devotion was more acceptable in the eyes of a benificent and all-wise
divinity, than any mere outward form of public worship. It was, he said,
the greatest consolation to him in his last trial, to reflect that he had
been honest and upright in all his dealings, and that in his conduct to
his fellow creatures, he had uniformly kept in view the sublime precept of
"Do unto others as you would they should do unto you." This, he said, was
his chief consolation in the hour of trial; and he most emphatically urged
us to follow his example, particularly in that respect, as "honesty was
the best policy." Recalling to his memory and mentioning all the little
menial errors that he had committed, he assured us that they gave him not
the least uneasiness; that God was too wise, too just, too good, and too
forgiving, to record such faults, and to make his creatures suffer for
them where they had not been vicious and premeditated.
In this way, for four days, he spent the close of his existence,
principally with me; urging and inculcating every good, honest, and noble
principle; cautioning me against the effects likely to result from my
great enthusiasm, and pointing out to me the path which he thought would
lead to happiness, honour, and renown; and he constantly offered up the
most pious and devout thanks to Heaven, for having permitted him to remain
so long after he had received notice of his approaching dissolution, as to
enable him to give me so much good advice. He anticipated that I should do
well and prosper in the world, if my daring independent spirit did not
lead me into difficulties; he continued to express great doubts about the
prudence of my remaining in the yeomanry cavalry; he said that he had
always dreaded some great evil would arise out of it to me; and he
submitted whether it would not be much to my advantage to leave it. His
death, would, he said, be a most ample reason for my quitting it, as I
should have such a large business upon my hand, that it would require
every moment of my time to attend to it. "And if you want an excuse,"
added he, "say it was one of the last wishes of your father that you
should do so; but recollect, my dear son, I do not bind you down to any
promise of the sort; I only throw out this hint, if you choose to make an
excuse. I must, however say, that an honourable and brave man, should
never think it necessary to make any excuse for doing that which be deems
right and proper. You will recollect these observations and feel their
justice, after I am dead and gone; when you will have no sincere friend to
advise and admonish you. I own I wish I could have lived another year or
two for your sake; as we were now just begun to live as father and son
ought to live, upon the most friendly footing. You would have assisted and
protected me in my old age; and I know, and you will so feel, that I
should have been of the most important service to you. You decide too
hastily; you are quick and impetuous; your young hot blood leads you on
incautiously into unnecessary dangers and difficulties. The truth is, you
are young; and therefore I would not have you otherwise disposed than you
are. I have long discovered a noble generous spirit to be the ruling
passion of your soul; and all your faults even result from an amiable and
a praiseworthy enthusiastic desire to excell. You only want prudence and
experience to direct you; but that experience which you might have
acquired from me you must now purchase. To have lived to direct, to advise
and admonish you, would have been a great happiness to me. But the Lord's
will be done! I have given you a good education; I have made you a
complete master of your business, as a farmer; God has blessed you with a
strong mind, and a sound body; and few young men of your age will begin
the world with brighter prospects; you will have a large business upon
your hands, that will keep you out of idleness; though, in fact, I do not
suspect you of any tendency to idleness; but I hope this fine business
will keep you out of mischief. You must be a father to your poor little
brothers, who are so unfortunate as to require double care. Your uncle
Powell has promised that he will take care of your sisters; but be sure
and give them repeated advice not to be led away, against their better
judgment, to adopt his form of religion, that of a Quaker. I have not the
slightest objection to the Quakers; but I have always found the church of
England quite good enough for those who have been bred up in that
persuasion. I do not think any one would be justified in dissenting from
the church of England till he has acted up to all the Christian precepts
of that church. But now, that we are on the subject of religion, and the
church of England, mark what I say upon my death bed. It will, I know,
sink deeper into your young mind than any thing that I could have said at
any other time. Do not, my dear son, for one moment imagine that I wish to
inculcate the idea that, as I approach my Maker, I profess to believe all
those mummeries that I have hitherto dared to disbelieve and dispute. You
know that I never joined in Saint Athanasius's Creed. All such unchristian
denunciations I ever held, and I still hold, to be blasphemous
impositions. Many of the forms of the church also are superstitious and
ridiculous; but the moral precepts of the Christian faith are wise and
good. I have never meddled in religious discussions; I have always formed
my own opinion to the best of my judgment and belief; and if in any of
those opinions I have erred, I have not the least shadow of doubt upon my
mind that a wise, just and beneficent Creator and father of all, will
pardon my errors. I do not feel the least disposed now to investigate, or
puzzle myself, in my last moments, in a vain endeavour to enquire whether
I have been right or wrong; the Lord's will be done, say I, and may he in
his goodness assist you to continue an honest and an upright man amongst
your fellow men. Do your duty by your neighbour, and worship your Maker
agreeably to the dictates of your own conscience, and you will live happy;
and when the time comes (for, recollect that it must come with ALL) and
when it comes with you, my dear son, may you be as well prepared as your
father is to enter the presence of your Maker."
I have, I think, shewn the reader enough to impress him with the idea of
the incessant pains, the unwearied exertion, of my excellent parent, to
inculcate the true principles of honour, morality, and religion upon the
mind of his son. He well knew that what he said upon these matters, at
such an awful period, was sure to make a lasting impression upon the
memory of his son: for whose benefit he appeared to live even to the last.
When, at times, he became exhausted with his anxiety to serve me, he would
say, "now, my dear boy, go down stairs and get some refreshment, while I
meditate, while I commune with God in private, and silently adore his
goodness. Come again soon; but, in the mean time, do not let any one
disturb my meditations." When I crept quietly back again, I sometimes
found him with his hands clasped, still in the act of silent prayer. On
seeing me, he would cease, and say, "it is all well;" and then he would
return to the most interesting discourse with me. At other times I found
him in the most sweet and delightful sleep; his countenance as placid as
in the most happy and prosperous moments of his life; as if he were
blessed with health and spirits. He always awoke cheerful, and apparently
refreshed, and would relate some delightful dream which he had had,
frequently consisting of a happy meeting and heavenly conversation with
his dear departed Elizabeth, my mother. God of heaven! what did I not feel
in those interesting and trying moments! Any weeping, any gloomy sorrow in
his presence, he forbad; for he said we all ought to bless the hour, and
to rejoice to see a beloved parent upheld at such a moment by his Creator,
so as to be enabled to die with such serenity and firmness, and to set
such an example to his children. In this manner passed away three days and
nights after Mr. Grant had pronounced it impossible for my father to
recover. As all the medical men had agreed that it was not probable that
he would survive more than two days, I had every now and then a faint hope
that the strength of his constitution would overcome the mortification.
Mr. Clare, however, who attended daily, repressed that hope by pronouncing
it impossible for my father to live. His predictions were verified by the
event. On the morning of the fourth day it was evident that my parent grew
weak; his voice failed him, he had much greater difficulty in holding any
conversation, and his breathing was much less frequent; yet he was calm
and cheerful, and felt pleasure in hearing my sister play upon the
piano-forté, which caused him a short slumber after each tune.
About the middle of the day, he desired to be alone with me; and taking my
hand, with a benignant smile, he said, in a weak but tender tone, "my
dearest son, your father's time for quitting this mortal life is arrived.
I find that the hand of death is upon me." After a pause of half a minute,
to recover from the exertion, he continued, "you will soon lose your best
and truest friend. I would not wish to make you a misanthropist; I would
not, because it is unnatural at your age, have you suspect all mankind;
but of this you may rest assured, that there are few, very few in the
world, who will not flatter you if they can get any thing by it. There are
none who will tell you of your faults with the candid kindness of a
friend; some, indeed, may taunt you with them, in order to irritate and
provoke you; but, before another sun rises, you will have lost the only
one who must be naturally anxious to advise and admonish you with a pure
and disinterested friendship. Young and sanguine as you are, you will be
thrown upon the wide world, to think and act for yourself; but your
prospects are bright, your father has done his best for you, and in his
last moments he will pray for your success and happiness in life. My only
sorrow is at leaving your little unfortunate brothers. You must be a
father to them, and I have left them an ample fortune, to repay you well
for any trouble you may have with them. I know you will be a kind brother
to them, and I hope, in return, that they will be grateful to you. I have
little dread on your account, for though you are young, yet God and your
father have done their duty towards you so bountifully, that there is
every prospect of your doing well in the world. I only wish I could have
lived to have seen you well out of the yeomanry cavalry! Recollect my last
words--you will always find 'honesty the best policy;' therefore always
'do unto others as you would that they should do unto you,' and take care
so to live that, when death calls, you may be prepared to follow him, as I
now am, in humble but confiding hope, and without repining."
My poor father held me firmly by the hand and looked me steadily in the
face, though his eyes grew dim, and his voice was so interrupted by the
difficulty of respiration, which now much increased, that he was greatly
exhausted. At length he sunk gently back upon his pillow, ejaculating "the
Lord's will be done; the Lord be praised." His eyes were fixed and death
had overspread his face with a sombre hue; he held my hand about three
hours, but never spoke more; lying all the while perfectly still,
apparently without the least pain or uneasiness, either in body or mind.
In this state he continued till near eight o'clock in the evening, of the
27th of August, 1797, when the best of fathers drew his last breath, and
gently slid into the arms of death, without a groan, a struggle, or even a
sigh, to the inexpressible grief of his affectionate and deeply-afflicted
son. His hand still retained its hold of mine, and I now gave vent to that
unbounded sorrow which I had heretofore suppressed and smothered, because
I would not make him uneasy. It is to me in my dungeon a source of
never-failing pleasure to reflect that all that it was possible for one
man to do to save the life of another I did, to save his life; and at any
one moment, after his doom was pronounced by the doctors, I would have
sacrificed my life, nay, if I had had a thousand lives I would have died
by torture a thousand times, to have saved his life. But he had taught me
not only by precept, but by example, to bow to the will of God. There
never lived a better man, nor a better father; nor did ever a son sustain
a greater loss than I did by his death. It has been said, with great
truth, that he was the second founder of his family.