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.