LETTER XLIX.

MR W. NEWTON.

Lichfield, Dec. 17, 1786.

YET too agitated to employ my pen on indifferent subjects, it is to such friends as yourself only that I am capable of writing. You who have long known and loved my poor father; you who are so kindly interested in my feelings, and in my destiny; it is you whom I wish to address in hours like these, when my mind is, as the subsiding sea, still trembling from the storm.

You are aware by how slight a thread the life of my aged nursling has been long suspended. His drop into the grave is an event which, I fear, will baffle my resolution to sustain with the cheerful resignation which reason and religion dictate. That entire dependence upon my care and attention, resulting from the decay of his corporeal and intellectual faculties, has doubled our bond of union, and engrafted the maternal upon filial tenderness. He seems at once my parent and my child; nor shall I suffer less, perhaps even more, from the loss of him, than if he had died while

power, and authority, and exertion were in his hands.

He had been several weeks exempt from those sudden seizures of apparently mortal torpidity, which often put his existence into the extremest peril. Last Sunday morning, I was roused from my slumbers, between seven and eight, by these alarming words from my servant: “ Madam, my master is very ill. He was seized, a few minutes ago, in a different way from what he used to be, with a dreadful fit. You had better not go to him. We have sent for Dr Jones.”

You will suppose I was not to be restrained from a sight which, God knows, I was not able to endure without agony. That dear feeble frame, and venerable face, which I had often seen sunk in the stupor of apoplectic palsy, torn and distorted by convulsive and apparently agonized struggles!

Ere I had been ten minutes in the room, his physician entered, and pronounced the seizure epilectic. He said he should bleed him copiously, not with the least hope that he could now be rescued from death; but to prevent the continuance of the fits, and render his expiring moments calm and easy; adding, he has not strength to bear the loss of blood, which is necessary to subdue

these convulsed struggles; but if not subdued, they would be inevitably fatal.

The loss of blood did subdue the fits, of which he had no return; but sunk into cold, damp, and, in appearance, deadly slumber. The physician said he would pass away in those slumbers; and assured me that he had little more to suffer.

I asked why it might not be hoped that he, who had survived apoplexy and palsy so often, might survive this new and more terrible attack? It was replied, that when epilepsy seizes, after a succession of other dangerous diseases, and after years of previous debility, there had been scarce an instance where it had not been speedily fatal; that it would, however, be right to make every effort to save while breath remained; that a coffee-cup of madeira should be poured down his throat every half hour, the capability of swallowing being lost; that nothing more could be done; that medicine was useless; that he might expire in a few minutes, or might continue some hours; but I was intreated not to entertain a certainly fallacious hope. Dr Jones added, “I am obliged to go out of town directly, nor can I be of any farther use."

Alas! what a day of desponding anguish did I pass by his bed-side! that bed, on which he lay stretched out, his legs, and feet, and hands, icy cold;

his eyes closed ;-the damp of death on his sunk temples;-a breathing corpse!-but he had no struggles; that was some comfort. The wine we punctually administered each haif hour, without his seeming sensible of its being poured down. I expected every breath would be his last. In this state he remained from the time of his being bled, between eight and nine in the morning, till two hours after midnight.

Totally exhausted by the ceaseless tears I had shed, I was persuaded by my servants to go to bed, upon their promise of giving the wine at the appointed intervals.

With all the sorrow which, I think, filial affection knows to feel, I took what I believed my everlasting leave; kissing repeatedly his cold lips and hands. Assured by every body around me, that he could not live till day-break, I bid them avoid coming to me till I rung, and desired that when they saw me, I might learn the event rather from their silence, than their words.

So many hours weeping procured a friendly stupor on pressing my pillow. I fell into an heavy desponding slumber, nor awoke till the clock struck six. Then, with a deep sense of woe, did I open my swoln eye-lids. Darkness and silence were around me, and the sense of deprivation sat

heavy on my heart. Never more! said I aloud, never more!

During an whole hour I had not resolution to ring my bell for the fatal information. At length, and without any summons, I heard the sound of quick steps approaching my door. Strange, thought I, and unfeeling speed!—they have surely forgotten my injunctions. I lifted the drop-bolt. "Madam, my master is alive, and much betterhe has spoken-he has asked for you, and for his breakfast."

Up I started, and, huddling on a slight covering, hastened down to his apartment, my heart bounding to my very throat. O Friend,

"Not thro' the arch so hurries the blown tide
As I, recomforted, did pass that door."

The door, which I never again expected to open with the gladness of filial hope.-Yes, I beheld that beloved father, sitting nearly upright in his bed, supported by a back-chair, his eyes open, and a portion of intelligence, with a look of tender affection, lighting them up once more.

My dear Nancy, said he, in a faint voice, I am glad you are come to give me my breakfast. I feel hungry." O! what tears of transport did