This series of happy travelling narratives was suddenly interrupted by the following letters, now first printed, to the father of the young wife. Rotterdam, Dec. 1, 1835.
My dear Sir,—I trust that my last letter to my father has in some measure prepared your mind for the melancholy intelligence which this will bring to you. Our beloved Mary is no more. She expired on Sunday morning, Nov. 29, without pain or suffering, either of body or mind, and with entire resignation to the will of her heavenly Father. Though her sickness was long, yet I could not bring myself to think it dangerous until near its close. Indeed, I did not abandon all hope of her recovery till within a very few hours of her dissolution, and to me the blow was so sudden, that I have hardly yet recovered energy enough to write you the particulars of this solemn and mournful event. When I think, however, upon the goodness and purity of her life, and the holy and peaceful 108 death she died, I feel great consolation in my bereavement, and can say, “Father, thy will be done.”
Knowing the delicate state of Mary’s health, I came all the way from Stockholm with fear and trembling, and with the exception of one day’s ride from Kiel to Hamburg we came the whole distance by water. Unfortunately our passage from Hamburg to Amsterdam in the Steamboat was rather rough, and Mary was quite unwell. On the night of our arrival the circumstance occurred to which I alluded in my last, [the premature birth of a child] and which has had this fatal termination.... In Amsterdam we remained three weeks; and Mary seemed to be quite restored and was anxious to be gone. To avoid a possibility of fatigue we took three days to come to this place—a distance of only forty miles; and on our arrival here Mary was in excellent spirits and to all appearances very well. But alas! the same night she had a relapse which caused extreme debility, with a low fever, and nervous headache. This was on the 23d October. In a day or two she was better, and on the 27th worse again. After this she seemed to recover slowly, and sat up for the first time on the 11th, though only for a short while. This continued for a day or two longer, till she felt well enough to sit up for nearly an hour. And 109 then she was seized with a violent rheumatism, and again took to her bed from which she never more arose.
During all this she was very patient, and generally cheerful, tho’ at times her courage fainted and she thought that she should not recover,—wishing only that she could see her friends at home once more before she died. At such moments she loved to repeat these lines [by Andrews Norton], which seemed to soothe her feelings:—
“Father! I thank thee! may no thought
E’er deem thy chastisements severe.
But may this heart, by sorrow taught,
Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.”
On Sunday, the 22nd, all her pain had left her, and she said she had not felt so well during her sickness. On this day, too, we received a letter from Margaret, which gave her great pleasure, and renovated her spirits very much. But still from day to day she gained no strength. In this situation she continued during the whole week—perfectly calm, cheerful and without any pain. On Friday another letter came from Margaret, and she listened to it with greatest delight. A few minutes afterwards a letter from you and Eliza was brought in, which I reserved for the next day. When I went to her on Saturday morning I found her countenance much 110 changed, and my heart sank within me. Till this moment I had indulged the most sanguine hopes;—but now my fears overmastered them. She was evidently worse, though she felt as well as usual. The day passed without change; and towards evening, as she seemed a little restless and could not sleep, I sat down by her bedside, and read your letter and Eliza’s to her. O, I shall never forget how her eyes and her whole countenance brightened, and with what a heavenly smile she looked up into my face as I read. My own hopes revived again to see that look; but alas! this was the last gleam of the dying lamp. Towards ten o’clock she felt a slight oppression in the chest, with a difficulty of breathing. I sat down by her side and tried to cheer her; and as her respiration became more difficult, she said to me, “Why should I be troubled; If I die God will take me to himself.” And from this moment she was perfectly calm, excepting for a single instant, when she exclaimed, “O, my dear Father; how he will mourn for me.” A short time afterwards she thanked Clara for her kindness, and clasping her arms affectionately round my neck, kissed me, and said, “Dear Henry, do not forget me!” and after this, “Tell my dear friends at home that I thought of them at the last hour.” I then read to her from the Church Litany the prayers 111 for the sick and dying; and as the nurse spoke of sending for Dr. Bosworth, the Episcopal clergyman, Mary said she should like to see him, and I accordingly sent. He came about one o’clock, but at this time Mary became apparently insensible to what was around her; and at half-past one she ceased to breathe.
Thus all the hopes I had so fondly cherished of returning home with my dear Mary in happiness and renovated hea............