You may, indeed, presume that it is with painful interest and deep
regret that I hear of the death of your father, and that I value
the terms in which you speak of his feelings towards myself.
Though he died at such an advanced age, it is, I think, remarkable
that his friends spoke of him to the last as if he were still in
the full intercourse of daily life, without the disqualification
or forgetfulness that old age sometimes brings with it.
For my part I can never forget my association with him in the House
of Commons and elsewhere, nor the uniform kindness which he always
showed me.
Believe me, most truly yours,
ARTHUR W. PEEL.
_June_ 29_th_, 1894.
My DEAR RUSSELL,
I have seen, with the eyes of others, in newspapers of this afternoon
the account of the death--shall I say?--or of the ingathering of
your father. And of what he was to you as a father I can reasonably,
if remotely, conceive from knowing what he was in the outer circle,
as a firm, true, loyal friend.
He has done, and will do, no dishonour to the name of Russell. It
is a higher matter to know, at a supreme moment like this, that
he had placed his treasure where moth and dust do not corrupt, and
his dependence where dependence never fails. May he enjoy the rest,
light, and peace of the just until you are permitted to rejoin him.
With growing years you will feel more and more that here everything
is but a rent, and that it is death alone which integrates.
On Monday I hope to go to Pitlochrie, N. B., and in a little time
to return southward, and resume, if it please God, the great gift
of working vision.
Always and sincerely yours,
W. E. GLADSTONE.