Memoirs and select remains of an only son, who died November 27, 1821, in his 19th year, while a student in the university of Glasgow

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AT LOS ANGELES

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His Birth and Childhood 9

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Proudly he sets, and gilds the ocean's breast, Possess'd of beauty's mildest, softest charms : The rising ocean greets the royal guest : — Just as the charger knows his rider bold Laughs at the battle and the din of arms ; Proud of the purple and the splendid gold.

That globe of flame is not so dazzling bright, As when he blaz'd amid the azure sky,

Dispensing- universal heat and light ; While every part of nature seemM to smile, And ev'ry flowVet rais'd its head on high, As if 'twould bless the king of light the while.

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What tho' less glorious its evening gleam, Yet will he not a double splendour pour When soft Aurora shall disclose his beam, Opening the gates of day with roseate hand, Refulgent with immortal brightness soar, And roll a flood of brilliance o'er the land ?

Soon shall he shine, illuming happier skies ; No cloud shall darken then his golden ray : From spicy groves a thousand odours rise, The flowVet blushing at his warm embrace. The rivers glittering, while the zephyrs pla3^ And Jubilee is kept in ev'ry place !

IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE 4, BOOK 3.

Descend from heav'n and tune thy golden lyre, And nobly teach thy suppliant bard to sing, Sweetly to chaunt the grand immortal strain, Or wake the harp's mellifluous tones again ;

Inflame the poefs soul with heavenly fire, Till softly warbles every trembling string-, And the bold chords with thund'ring music ring.

Heard ye ! — or was it Fancy's pleasing dream ? — Hark ! for they sound the loud celestial lyres ! Look ! for I see Elysian fields appear ! With raptures bright, th' ethereal people hear ! More brilliant now Creation's beauteous beam, While heav'nly music heav'nly joy inspires, Which, flaming high, to heav'n itself aspires.

And I too wander 'mid the fields of light — So did an omen prophesy of yore — When but a child, o'ercome with sleep and play. Wearied, on V'ulture's mountain lap 1 lay ; The lovely birds of Cyprian Venus bright, With greenest, freshest foliage strew'd me o'er, And all around ambrosial sweetness pour.

And all who dwell on Acherontia's crest, The Bantine hills or rich Ferentum's vale, — When thus they saw me, wonder'd much to find No pois'nous serpent round my body twin'd. — All undisturb'd by savage beasts my rest, Fann'd with the breathings of a gentle gale, Blest with protection that can never fail.

Th' immortal laurel and the myrtle wreath Show'd me that I should iind your ready aid, — And your's I am, ye muses, when I lave My burning limbs beneath the cooling wave — When cold Praeneste's purest air I breathe. Or when I walk 'mid Tibur's grateful shade, Or plunge amid the Sabine mountain glade.

It was your shield protected once my head, Amid the thund'ring crash of battle-roar — And still it is your ever-watchful eye That guards me from the dangers always nigh— Now your impenetrable mantle spread, And, with a robe of radiance cover'd o'er. Beyond the reach of human thought I'll soar.

With you I wander, fearless, ev'ry where : — What, tlio' the bounding sea around me foam ? Tranquil along the Bosphorus I sail, Tho' lash'd with all the fury of the gale : Safely I draw the desert's burning air, — Unhurt among the bloody Spaniards roam, Or find, amid the western isles, a home.

Secure I'll pass the Scythian's rushing flood, Nor dread the fierce Barbarian's certain dart ; While you, ye Muses, sheltered from the sun. Sing, in Pierian cave, the honors won By great Augustus, amid toil and blood. While the disbanded veterans all depart, Each with a satisfied, a grateful heart : —

Rejoice to meet the ancient soldier's ease, Rejoice to see the polish which you gave To mighty Caesar's manly virtuous soul; How, at his beck, the wheels of empire roll. How the old warrior smiles to see the trees Wave round the cot, with which the leader brave Would bless the pause 'twixt labor and the grave.

What is brute force, without an active mind ! Such was the giant Titans' horrid might. Almighty power enraged against them cast His sheeted, lurid lightning's withering blast. Where could the wretches, then, their courage find ? — How did they tremble at th' unequal fight. And fear omnipotency's piercing sight !

What though heaven groan beneath the weight of

arms ! — Think you that Jupiter, enthron'd in light,

Cares for the tumult ? * No ! but with a nod, Shakes heaven, earth, hell, and shows himself a god ; Laughs at the rattle of the vain alarms, Looks down and smiles from his refulgent height, And shines with undiminished splendor bright,

And what though mountain upon mountain rise, And seek to reach the golden lamps on high ! Yet how can great Typhoeus' giant hand Forphyrion's strength or Rhoecus' force withstand The mighty soldiery of all the skies ; Or how against the sounding Mgls fly. And all the vengeance of the gods defy !

The host of heaven exult in strength divine : Here stands the monarch of devouring flame ; Here heavenly Juno, arm'd with heavenly might ; And there the youthful beauteous God of light ; Castalia's dew-gems round his ringlets shine. Celestial glory sparkles through his frame, While Lycian groves re-echo to his name.

* I really conceive that there is something so mean in the original idea —

that I have dared to desert my model ; as I could not reconcile myself to a cowardlt/ omnipotence.

The Titans fell ; — for how could brutal force Destroy the fountain spring of all that's wise ; Dry up the sea of knowledge, love and joj^, Of boundless power to save or to destroy : Arrest that mighty ocean in its course, Disarm the dreaded Thunderer of the skies, Or hope above infinitude to rise !

For so the hundred-handed Gyas fell ; Lustful Orion, — chaste Diana's foe — Swift from the virgin's piercing arrow fled : But th' unerring archer laid him dead : — The lightning's storm pursued the rest to hell ; And Earth, which chains him down to fire below, Groans, while she sees her children's overthrow !

In vain (hey strive, in vain they tug their chains,

Altho' the eating fire forever glows.

By vultures torn, the heart of Tityus lies.

A hundred triple bands to fiery pain

Confine Pirithoijs, with eternal blows.

And scorpion-lashes leave him no repose.

The translator adds : —

Not iu Pieria's grot, O heavenly muse,

Nor round the fabled throne of sov'reign Jove,

Nor near old Athens' classic groves art thou : —

But thou art all around me : 1 hear thy voice

Amid the bowlings of the tempests' cry,

Or in the zephyrs softly whispering —

Thee in the waving trees, the glittering streams —

Thee in the billowy ocean's lo'idest roar —

Thee in the gentle harp's mellifluous sound —

Thee in the thunder roaring o'er the sky —

And thee I find amid the mountain tops,

Thee I invok'd, when first I undertook

The high emprise of following angel wing,

Or one that soar'd liigh as angel in

Th' expanse of thought. And now my work is done.

Shall I be thankless, i upon my head

Be plac'd the laurel crown of victory ?

Or tho' no laurel deck my humble lay.

Shall I be thankless ; if I have transfus'd

Its bright effulg-ence from one noble line

Of thy most frivor'd child, or breath'd his soul

Into the grandeur of my native tongue ?

During the same summer, (while he was between fourteen and fifteen) he began " The Wizard," a most wild, imaginative prodiiction. Its plot, as far as it goes,

is rather inartificial ; and I am unable to say what he in- 8 tended as the catastrophe ; for he proceeded only through a part of his plan. The last portion of the fragment was written about April, 1818. His beloved mother, who had contributed so much towards the formation of his mind, was delighted with this Tale, and our dear young poet continued it chiefly for her amusement. Soon after he had completed the thousandth line, an event happened which threw a deep gloom over us all ; any reference to which long filled our eyes with tears, and our hearts with agony ; and, at this moment, fills me with unutterable anguish. He never touched the poem again ; I believe, never looked at it: his muse remained for a time, and I feared would remain through life,

" Lorn as the hung-up lute that ne'er had spoken Sweet sounds e'er since its master chord was broken."

ILLNESS AND DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.

Thus, for years, passed life most sweetly away — our affection and comfort, if possible, increasing hourly. The long imbecility, and the death of his maternal grandmother ; and the continued bodily infirmities of a most beloved aunt, were the only domestic evils he was called, for a considerable time, to witness. His grandmother, who had been for more than fifty years of her life distinguished for her great good sense, hospitality, and christian piety, died in February, 1817, at the advanced age of 79. His aunt, (who, though afflicted, jet in such beloved society, and blest with the richest consolations of religion, still enjoyed life) — his mother and mi/se//" felt a growing delight in our dear and common treasure, who was all that the fondest, the proudest, or even the holiest relatives could wish. Amidst the ten thousand conceivable possibilities or probabilities of his future life, 1 had, notwithstanding her ill health, generally associated his aunt, and always his mother, in my dreams of earthly bliss. But God, whose " thoughts are not as our thoughts," had intended far different scenes for them and for me. " He hath chosen," and let Him choose " my inheritance for me." Not as I will, but as Thou wilt."

At the close of 1817, his mother's health became impaired. Her vivacity, her general benevolence, her tender affection for us, remained unimpaired. We passed the winter ia some comfort, with our two dear invalids ; who, however, were sometimes incapable of seeing each other for nearly a week together. But though we had long considered Miss Friend's as a hopeless case, we had no serious apprehensions for Mrs. Durant. Her ceaseless animation deceived us. And her mind was never more alive ; her heart was never so intent on doing good. In her various weaknesses, which rendered personal exertion in the cause of humanity and religion impossible, she would often say, "My only grand wish for health is, that I might not be so useless as 1 am in the world :" and some of her very last hours were spent in contriving to promote the happiness of her fellow-creatures. While we were dreaming of her recovery,— scarcely suspecting, even for a moment, the slightest danger — our friends, it seems, who saw her less frequently than we did, and could mark, with greater precision, her decays ; whispered to each other the fears which their tenderness forbade them to communicate to us.

On Monday, the 4th of May, 1818, she and her sister went as far as Wilton, on their way to Melksham Spa. At the house of our dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bristowe, they met, for a week, with all the attention which affection could devise and supply. William and I followed them, on the next Monday, with an intention of accompanying them to their ulterior destination. We had hoped that the waters, air, and scenery of Melksham, would have restored to us in perfect health, our dearest sufferer : and that even her sister would return improved. We left Poole, by coach, in higher spirits than any with which we had ever quitted home before ;

for vve TVero go'm^ to those who had ahvays rendered that home what it had been. We talked by the way of meeting them ; his heart was pecuUarly dch'ghted ; and every scene through which we passed for nineteen miles, seemed to present charms undescried before.

Alas ! our joy was but of short duration. Soon after our coach arrived at Fordingbridge, where it stopped a short time, we saw a post-chaise approaching us with almost incredible speed. "Are Mr. Durant and his son in the coach ?" roused us from our dreams of pleasure, and forced upon us a melancholy presentiment of the evil that awaited us. " Is she alive ?'' burst instantly from our lips. ' She was,' said the messenger, ' whea I left Wilton.' We entered the carriage ; I fell upon my dear son's neck m agony ; he was thunderstruck and speechless. We passed rapidly on with a silence interrupted only by our sighs and occasional bursts of grief In three hours from the moment that the messenger left Wilton, during which he had ridden thirty miles, we arrived at the house of our friends. " Is she yet alive ?" ' She is.' We were ready to rush to her bed-side ; but prudence in her dying state demanded caution. At length I saw her, restless in body, and almost struggling with the final attacks of her malady ; but, in soul, " calm as summer evenings be." She conversed as readily and as sensibly as ever. As it would have been dangerous to have greatly excited her, I sat by her bed-side, silently musing, suppressing ray sighs, and shedding my unobserved tears : but at length ventured to ask, whether she would see her beloved William. She answered, " I shall, I hope, be better pre- 8* pared to see him to-morrow morning : at present it would, I fear, too much agitate me." Alas ! she was destined to see him no more till they should meet in heaven ! About nine that evening, she was suddenly seized with convulsions, which were, in a few minutes to terminate her mortal career. I called up my dear boy, and he had the melancholy satisfaction of witnessing her last struggle. 1 fell upon her lifeless corpse ; and losing, for a moment, all self-control, uttered my piercing cries ; while he fell on his knees near her bed-side, — and, pale as death, with a countenance equally expressive of wo and resignation, — faltered out, " Oh ! Hearenly Father, sustain us !" In a few minutes, I was sufficientljf collected to bend upon my knees with him and his dear, and scarcely less afflicted, aunt ; and beg for grace patiently to bear, and rightly to improve, the awful chastisement.

During our connexion for more than sixteen years, I had had many fears on her account. A fright produced by the dangerous situation of William, when eighteen months old, broug-ht on an alarming- illness, attended with some singular phenomena. This illness, by impairing a constitution hitherto peculiarly good, endangered her life during every succeeding state of pregnancy ; and once or twice her confinement had placed her, in my apprehension, within a step of death. At these melancholy seasons, I had, as 1 thought, realized her death, and the effects which that event would produce on my mind. But till the moment of separation actually arrived, I had not the slightest conception of what I should feel — when hope became utterly extinct. — On this subject — succeeded as it has been by other equally mournful events — I dare not — 1 must not — 1 ought not — to dwell.

1 cannot but remember, with devout gratitude to God, that her singularly endowed mind was inspired, adorned and blessed with a large share of genuine religion, which taught her to employ all the influence that her talents acquired for the general good. 1 write for the perusal of many who knew her ; and I may confidently appeal to them, whether she was not one of the greatest blessings to the place of her residence that it has fallen to their lot to know, respect, and love. Her memory was embalmed by the regrets of thousands, and by the tears of a most extensive circle of friends who either concurred with her in her " labors of love," witnessed her zeal, or partook of her numerous kindnesses. No death, within the whole range of my acquaintance — except that of my dear son — has ever produced a deeper or a more general sensation.

My mind, it will readily be believed, was absorbed in grief for a loss which, however expected by our friends, came suddenly upon us ; and which broke the charm that had given to my future plans and hopes almost their entire interest.

" She was ray life's unerring light —

That quencli'd — what beam could break my night ?"

At this moment, however, the thoughts of my sou and afflicted sister mingled with my sorrows for the departure of a most beloved wife — of a wife whom I all but adored, and to whom (under God) I must ever feel that I owe the best portion of my imperfect character, and a large measure of the little respect I have gamed, and the good I have done in the world. Deeply aflfected, however, as my mind was with one great evil, I could not, even for an hour, be indifferent to ttie happiness of those who seemed now cast upon me alone. I knew that the possibility of a change in my future coadition, which might banish her or render my home less pleasant to her than it otherwise might be^ would present itself to both of them, and greatly aggravate the bitterness of their loss. I formed my plan at once ; — and shall ever rejoice that 1 did it ; — and that even the kind and disinterested requests and intreaties of my beloved sister, who afterwards feared she might stand in the way of my happiness, could not induce me, for one moment, to falter in maintaining my purpose. Within a few hours cf Mrs. Durant's death, I said to both, "Your happiness is mine ; I can scarcely be wretched, if you are comfortable ; I cannot possibly be happy, if you are not so. We return to Poole ; and, remember, my dear sister, you are, from the moment of our arrival there, the mistress of my house ; the adopted mother of this dear boy ; and nothing but death shall separate us." They were most gratefully affected by my declaration, which, after ail, was as essential to my happiness as to theirs. We, then, embraced each other " over my dead," as if she were the silent witness of my vows to make her dearest kindred happy ; and, even amidst " the sickness unto death," which one of our trio was, we were confident, doomed to endure ; we hoped yet to enjoy a few days' happiness ; and, blessed be God, we were not disappointed. I hoped,

That ev'n in widowed life my son might slied Rays of enjoyment round my aching head ; As violets from the hank on which they rise Pour showers of falling sweets — *

William, who had ever affectionately loved his aunt, seemed, from this moment, to devote himself entirely to her comfort. And never did the most impassioned lover dis[)lay a more ardent desire to promote the hapj)iness of his mistress than he to secure hers. He seemed to anticipate her every wish ; and would, at any time, to the last evening that he left us, have foregone any engagement that might, even by possibility, have withdrawn him from the opportunity of contributing to her pleasure.

Our griefs, on returning to our once loved home, were inexpressibly great. But we had every thing around us to alleviate our sorrow. Our friends vied with each other in expressions of sympathy, and in proofs of real friendship. My own affectionate congregation, from whom I have, for more than twentj' years, received an unbroken series of kindnesses, wept for me as for a brother; redoubled their assiduities; and sought to make my burden light. My own house, though deprived of its chief ornament, had yet much to attach me — a sister^ whose very infirmities gave her a stronger hold on my affections ; and a son, who, on that occasion, became my chief comforter. Oh ! how do those charming and eloquent conversations, with which he endeavoured to raise my fallen spirits, as we paced arm in arm, about our garden, now recur to my recollection ; and at once * From the Wizard, referred to, p. 93.

wound my heart, and soothe its angfuish ! He once said, in the most serious and impassioned manner (referring me to a saying of Lord Ossory) ^' I would not, father — no, I would not part with my dead mother for any living mother in Europe ! Let us think what she was in herself, what she has been to us and the world, and what she now is — and could we consent to exchange her for any one ?''

One female friend, who, with her husband, lives to weep with me afresh ; and some of my brethren, to whom I shall never cease to feel my obligations for their long friendship and unwearied kindness ; came from afar to weep with us, and by sharing our sorrows, to lessen them, on that occasion. One of these was Mr. (now Dr.) Philip, then of Aberdeen^ at present, of Cape Town in Africa ; whom I mention particularly, as his coming was of great importance to my dear William's subsequent comfort. It had ever been our intention that he should spend four years at the University of Aberdeen, and board with our friend Philip. But, in consequence of his intended removal, he strongly recommended Glasgow. Our great concern was, to procure a situation in a family of respectability and intelligence, where my son might feel himself at home, and be happy. Mr. P. thought that Dr. Wardlaw, would possibly, to oblige us both, take him under his roof. He wrote a most favourable account of my child ; and Dr. W. consented to receive him. This I shall ever esteem as one of the happiest circumstances of my life. It placed my dearest treasure, where, as far as depended upon human wisdom and kindness, all was safe. It gave to my son, and eventually to myself, a friend, whom I hope I shall ever have the privilege of calling such ; and from whom William received, to the end of his brief life, the kindness of a father. Both Dr. and Mrs. VVardlaw, by their conduct towards him, have laid me under everlasting obligations.

Our summer passed away as comfortably as, under our circumstances, it could be expected to pass. A large portion of it was taken up in attention to our poor invalid, whose constitution had received an incurable shock. She was, however, able to accompany us in September, to London, whither we went for the purpose of taking a passage to Aberdeen, on a visit to our friend before his departure to Africa. Our residence, for about a fortnight, in that metropolis of the north of Scotland, was rendered more than comfortable, by the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Philip, and the polite and friendly attentions of some among the professors of both colleges, and several of the established ministers of the town. In that part of the United Kingdom, there were none of those painful associations which, in moving among our friends in England, were ever presenting themselves; and impairing, where they did not absolutely destroy, our pleasures. We could visit no friend here^ who did not know her whom we loved and for whom we mourned — no friend, whom we had not seen in company with her. There all was new ; and it was the first place that fairly restored William and me to any thing like our accustomed cheerfulness.

In the city of Aberdeen, we were exceedingly pleased with an introduction to a young gentleman of uncommon promise ; of whom we had heard much ; but whose modesty and learning surpassed our expectation. He was the only child of Dr. Ross, like myself, a widower, and " whose life," like my own, '• was bound up in the life of his son." This lovely youth was about four years older than William. But their cong-enial dispositions and pursuits led me to hope that an acquaintance begun under his father's hospitable roof might be renewed in my own house ; and at length matured into a friendship dissoluble only by death. He had promised to visit Poole in the next spring, on his way into Devonshire^ whither he was going on a visit to a relation. The illness of his honoured father prevented his coming to the south, and the accpjaintanceship ceased. This surprising young man, who bid fair to rank, as an oriental and general scholar, with Sir W. Jones, took a journey, in 1820, to the continent of Europe, for the purpose, I understand, of examining some manuscripts in foreign public libraries ; and, after passing several months there, returned in health to England ; but on his journey from Dover to London, was overturned in the coach, and received an injury which, after causing him to drag out with difficulty a precarious existence through the winter, consigned him to a grave, which he entered with christian peace and hope, in the spring of 1821. Both William and 1 were greatly affected on hearing of his . death ; felt deeply for the afflicted father; but rejoiced l to hear that he bore the dreadful stroke with the forti- ■ tude and resignation becoming a servant of God. I can i now more tenderly sympathise with Dr. Ross than ever. , We both grieve only for ourselves. Our beloved and I eminent children are only taken from dang'er and unavoidable sorrow, to a nobler, holier, and happier state of being. It were impossible that parents in our circumstances should not have indulged high expectations of benefit to the world, and happiness to ourselves, from children so endowed with all that was solid and brilliant in talents, and sweet in disposition ; and blessed too with an influence from above, disposing them to consecrate all to the honour and glory of God. But God has taught us that their stay on earth is not necessary to themselves, to us, to the world, or to His cause. '^ 'Tis," says the great John Howe, " a piece of divine Royalty and Magnificence, that when he hath prepared and polished such an utensil, so as to be capable of great service, He can lay it by without loss."

HIS FIRST SESSION AT GLASGOW.

We were accompanied to Glasg-ow by an affectionate relative, Mr, Coombs, of Ludgate-street, London, who chose the season of our journej to execute a purpose he had long- formed, of visiting Scotland. He added, then, as on many other occasions, to our happiness : nor will he, I am certain, feel hurt to see his name recorded with gratitude in the Memoirs of William Friend Du- RANT. We were received most politely by Dr. and Mrs. Wardlaw, who were destined to become the kindest friends of my beloved son ; to be the sources of a large share of his comfort in life ; his affectionate attendants at the bed of his death — and who now write, " Our eyes and our hearts fill, when we think and speak of him." After spending a week together in that city, we left him. He and I slept in the same room the night preceding my departure. We prayed together, hand in hand, before we retired to rest, and after we had risen early on the morning. His conversation was manly and christian ; but he breathed a warmer affection towards me, and expressed a more unbounded confidence in me than he had ever uttered before. At six in the morning our coach was to depart. In order to secure a good place, his cousin and I ascended a few minutes before the time ; and he accompanied us for the purpose of riding out a couple of miles. The carriage, however, became crowded with passengers, and he was obliged to descend. I shall never forget the tender and agonizing look of that moment. He stood gazing at us for a few seconds ; but presently I had lost him ; and conjecturing the cause of his disappearance, I sighed — perhaps wept — with him. I then thought, and afterwards found from himself, that he was unable to bear the sight of my departure. I commended him afresh to the guardian care of our Heavenly Father; and felt no slight alleviation of my sorrow at parting, from the thought that God had provided tor him such a friend as the gentleman in whose house he was to reside — and under whose roof he was, alas ! destined to breathe his last !

At College, a perfectly new world opened before him. To literature, science, and intelligent companions, he was no stranger. But he was, in effect, an only child ; had mixed with no children in his studies ; and had never, till that time, received five lessons, except in arithmetic, from any teachers but his father and mother. He knew not a single individual in the University. So entire a change in his habits — formed as he was, too, for affection — considerably lowered his spirits ; and his first letters were tinged with a gloom that threw, for a season, no slight degree of shade over my own mind. He found nothing, as he expressed it, to which his heart could cling. He could not, however, be long a stranger; and when known, he could not be long without admirers and friends. The professors and his class-fellows soon discovered his rare talents, his various attainments, and his indefatigable industry.* To Mr. Walker,