The weakness which proved fatal to Marryat had shown itself while he was still a young lieutenant in the West Indies. He had then been invalided home for rupture of a blood vessel in the lungs, and a military doctor “also certified to his tendency to ‘h?moptysis,’ and prophesied that, without great care, ‘the most dangerous and perhaps fatal results’ would be the consequence” of rashness. The danger had passed at that time—had probably been avoided by the use of care—and for many years Marryat had to all appearance been a very robust man. He was of the best possible height and build for strength. He was some five feet ten inches high, with broad deep chest, and his muscular force was exceptionally great. His portrait, as far as it can be judged of from the engraving prefixed to “Frank Mildmay,” gives the impression of a man of boundless energy, open-faced, alert, and keen-eyed. He was black-haired with blue eyes, and his beard grew so thick and so fast that he was compelled to shave twice a day. When he came to Langham, in 1843, his strength was apparently still unbroken, and he might appear sure of long years of health and capacity for work. But it is clear that there[150] was more appearance than reality in his strength. When a man has turned fifty he begins to suffer for the unwisdom of former years. Marryat, unfortunately, had never given himself any quarter. He had spared himself no burden a man can lay upon his strength. He had played and worked to excess, had lived in a whirl of nervous excitement, had spent beyond his means in constitution as well as in purse. If he had not spent his summer while it was May—at least he had run through it far too soon. Langham, which might have given him rest, was only the scene of more nervous excitement, more strenuous work. In 1847 the end began. In August of that year he speaks, in a letter to his sister, of having recently ruptured two blood vessels. The following letter shows that the accident occurred in London, but Marryat returned to Langham, and remained there till the want of medical advice likely to inspire more confidence than a country doctor’s drove him to London again. He remained at his mother’s house at Wimbledon for two months, and from it wrote to Lord Auckland, then at the Admiralty, on December 14th.

“My Lord,—When I had the honour of an audience with you, in July last, your lordship’s reception was so mortifying to me that, from excitement and annoyance, after I left you I ruptured a blood vessel, which has now for nearly five months laid me on a bed of sickness.

“I will pass over much that irritated and vexed me, and refer to one point only. When I pointed out to your lordship the repeated marks of approbation awarded to Captain Chads—and the neglect with which[151] my applications had been received by the Admiralty during so long a period of application—your reply was ‘That you could not admit such parallels to be drawn, as Captain Chads was a highly distinguished officer,’ thereby implying that my claims were not to be considered in the same light.

“I trust to be able to prove to your lordship that I was justified in pointing out the difference in the treatment of Captain Chads and myself. The fact is that there are no two officers who have so completely run neck and neck in the service, if I may use the expression. If your lordship will be pleased to examine our respective services, previous to the Burmah War, I trust that you will admit that mine have been as creditable as those of that officer; and I may here take the liberty of pointing out to your lordship that Sir G. Cockburn thought proper to make a special mention relative to both our services, and of which your lordship may not be aware.

“During the Burmah War Captain Chads and I both held the command of a very large force for several months—both were promoted on the same day, and both received the honour of the Order of the Bath—and, on the thanks of Government being voted in the House of Commons to the officers, and on Sir Joseph York, who was a great friend of Captain Chads, proposing that he should be particularly mentioned by name, Sir G. Cockburn rose and said that it would be the height of injustice to mention that officer without mentioning me.

“I trust the above statement will satisfy your lordship that I was not so much to blame when I drew the comparison[152] between our respective treatment—Captain Chads having hoisted his commodore’s pennant in India, having been since appointed to the Excellent, and lately received the good service pension; while I have applied in vain for employment, and have met with a reception which I have not deserved.

“And now, my lord, apologizing for the length of this letter, allow me to state the chief cause of my addressing you. It is not to renew my applications for employment—for which my present state of health has totally unfitted me—it is, that my recovery has been much retarded by a feeling that your lordship could not have departed from your usual courtesy in your reception of me as you did, if it was not that some misrepresentations of my character had been made to you. This has weighed heavily upon me; and I entreat your lordship will let me know if such has been the case, and that you will give me an opportunity of justifying myself—which I feel assured that I can do—as I never yet have departed from the conduct of an officer and a gentleman. I am the more anxious upon this point, as, since the total wreck of West India property, I shall have little to leave my children but a good name, which, on their account, becomes doubly precious. I have the honour, &c.,

“F. Marryat.”

I have quoted this melancholy but not altogether unmanly letter at full for the light it throws on Marryat’s last years. It is clear that when the ruin of West Indian property had begun to embarrass him, he had striven to return to active service. The beginning of the letter[153] proves that in the middle of 1847 his nerve was already gone. At last he was no longer able to bear the strain of that passion and determination of which his daughter speaks. When crossed by a First Lord of the Admiralty, with whom he could not give way to an explosion of rage, the effort required to control himself was too much for a man worn in health, and accustomed for many years past to give his feelings unchecked course. The letter may also stand as proof that Marryat’s reputation as a naval officer was dear to him. As to the merits of the dispute there is no evidence to form an opinion. Lord Auckland, in a temperate letter, replied that he had no recollection of what had passed at the time, but that he certainly could have had no intention of wounding so distinguished an officer as Captain Marryat. The letter ended with the agreeable information that a good service pension had been conferred on him. Heat and disappointment on the one side, and perhaps a little dry official formality on the other—a thing which those who deal with Government officials should learn to take for granted—will doubtless account for the trouble.

From this time forward Marryat’s remnant of life was filled with flights in search of health, and with every sorrow. From Wimbledon he went to Hastings, in the vain hope that a milder climate would give him a chance of recovery. For a time he seemed to improve, but it was a mere flicker. Whatever chance of recovery he had was utterly destroyed by the terrible blow which fell on him at the end of the year. His son, Lieutenant Frederick Marryat, was lost in the wreck of the Avenger in the Mediterranean. The Avenger, one of the first steamers in the[154] navy, was steered on a reef between Galita and the mainland, during the night. She was under steam and sail at the time, and struck so heavily that in a very few minutes she was a complete wreck, with the sea breaking over her. Frederick Marryat was below when the vessel struck. In the confusion which followed, he was seen, by one of the few survivors, in the waist of the ship, endeavouring to keep the men steady, and clear away the boats. But the Avenger brok............