LETTER XXXVII.

REV. MR. OLIPHANT TO MR. OTWAY.

To you, my dear friend, I address myself upon the present occasion, though gratitude has long ere this, dictated a return of my best acknowledgments to Mrs. Douglas, for _two_ such letters as deserve indeed my heart-felt thanks. But I have been painfully occupied, and I leave to your discretion the time and method of explaining to my dear friend, the cause of my silence, which is no other than the death of our worthy and much lamented neighbour Mr. Bentley, an event, intelligence of which, I well know, will not be heard at Marsden with indifference. A fortnight ago he returned, as usual, from his ride, accompanied by George, and immediately on entering the house, fell into a sort of fit, which appeared to result from determination of blood towards the head. George sent directly for me, and we had Mr. Pigot immediately from Tralee, who acted with judgment, and ere the surgeon and physician, for whom we sent to Dublin, had reached Mount Prospect, our poor friend had recovered his sensibility. The devotion of George to his uncle could not be exceeded, and it was so purely disinterested, that the wealth of Potosi would have weighed but as a feather in the balance, against the re-establishment of Mr. Bentley’s health. The medical people, however, saw from the first, that his situation was precarious, of which he was conscious from the beginning himself. With Christian courage, he began to prepare for the awful change which he perceived to be approaching, and truly died the death of the righteous. Yesterday evening he breathed his last in the arms of his nephew. I never left him, except for the necessary purposes of refreshment, from the time of his first seizure, and have the happiness of believing that my presence afforded him comfort. As the short period of his indisposition spared him any great exhaustion of strength, he spoke without uneasiness, and in the most collected manner adverted to the nature of his hopes. Nothing could be more deeply interesting than his discourse, during the few latter hours which preceded the closing scene.

“Oliphant,” said he, “I have never in my life, been an unbeliever; but how small is the difference between infidelity, and a mere nominal Christianity: a meagre religion of form and habit! Nay, of the two, is there not a better chance, that the avowed scoffer, terrified by the abyss which lies before him, may turn from the evil of his ways, than the self-satisfied moralist, who depends on his miserable, his imperfect works, for eternal salvation? My friend, I was in the latter predicament. I received a commonplace Church of England education, said my prayers mechanically, went to church, gave alms, abstained from travelling on Sundays; and was for years of my life, so entirely persuaded, that as a Christian character, I stood on a high pedestal, removed from the vulgar level of mankind, that the Pharisee’s words, though not perhaps actually expressed by my lips, were never far from my heart; and, ‘Lord, I thank Thee, that I am not as other men,’ was a sentiment continually present to me, whenever I thought upon serious subjects. Oh, how far from God was I in those days, when I thought myself so near Him!”

Here he paused, and after the interval of a few minutes, resumed the train of solemn reflection upon which he had entered.

“Yes,” added he, “blessed be Heaven, such vain-glorious delusions are far from me now, and I am not ashamed to say, that I owe the change to this young man.”

Here poor George was completely overwhelmed. He pressed his uncle’s hand to his lips, and shed a torrent of tears.

“George,” continued the dying man, “first taught me the religion of the heart. Of what avail are the cold conclusions of reason? they teach not humility, they do not subdue the passions, they do not improve the temper, nor allay one demoniac ebullition of malice or revenge. My practice has been wretchedly vacillating. I have been continually led away from the right way; but it is something to know this, and to put no confidence in aught but the redeeming mercy of Him who suffered in our mortal form, for guilty man, and died upon the cross to save our souls alive.”

My poor friend told me that his worldly affairs were all settled.

“My temporal house,” said he, “has been set in order. May the heavenly mansions be opened to receive me!”

From time to time, he held this kind of language, placidly awaiting the awful mandate. The bursting of a blood vessel in the temple is not attended by much pain, and he suffered none that was not incident to the remedies employed. On Tuesday he gave me a key, and told me where I should find all his papers regularly labelled, adding, “George’s character is not one of shew. He will be sorry for me in the bottom of his heart: give him assistance now, and he will not need it long. Religion has taken fast hold upon him, and her consolations will quickly restore the equilibrium of his spirits. He will never _forget_, but he will soon cease to _grieve_.”

After so saying, he fell into a tranquil slumber, and spoke no more, except to ask for certain portions of the sacred volume. He repeated the 15th chapter of St. John with fervour; desired us to read the 53d of Isaiah, the 23d Psalm, and other favourite parts of scripture. A restless night proclaimed the approach of death, and the last afternoon witnessed his peaceful exit. He left his affectionate regards for all of you, and has bequeathed, he told me, some little memorial of respectful esteem to each individual at Glenalta and Lisfarne.

Thus has passed away our kind-hearted neighbour Roger Bentley, and his loss would be too sad to dwell upon, if his excellent nephew were not heir to his uncle’s virtues, as well as property. No change will be felt, I venture to assert, by any one who depended on the bounty of our departed friend. Poor George is absorbed in silent sorrow; he neither weeps nor talks, but the chalky paleness of his countenance, is a faithful index to what passes within. He courts solitude, and wishes no other companionship than his Bible. When the last ceremony is performed, I shall write to my dear friend, Mrs. Douglas, and in the mean time, with the most affectionate remembrances to her, the General, and _my pupils_, believe me, my dear sir,

Yours most sincerely,

J. OLIPHANT.