[Sidenote: Last letter.]

You will not expect (he wrote, in this his last letter) to hear much from me by this mail when you hear how I am situated. The Hill expedition, of which I gave you some of the details in my last, had an unexpected effect upon me; knocking me down prostrate to begin with, with some symptoms of an anxious character behind, which require looking into. The nature and extent of the mischief are not sufficiently ascertained yet to enable me to say positively whether my power of doing my duty is likely to be in any degree impaired by what has happened. But Lady Elgin has brought up from Calcutta the medical man who attended me there, and he arrived this morning; so that a consultation will take place without delay. Meanwhile I have got over the immediate effects sufficiently to enable me to do such business as comes before me now. No change has taken place in our plans. We move rather more slowly, and I have given up the idea of going to Peshawur; but this is rather occasioned by the desire to confer with the Punjab Government, while these affairs on the frontier are in progress, than by my mishap.

I think that the expedition (against the Sitana fanatics) will be a success; and I labour incessantly to urge the necessity of confining its objects to the first intentions. Plausible reasons for enlarging the scope of such adventures are never wanting; but I shall endeavour to keep this within its limits.

Lady Elgin is bearing up courageously, under a great pressure of labour and anxiety.

The sad story of what follows cannot be told in other words than those in which it has already been given to the world, with all the skill of an artist combined with the tenderness of a brother, and with that fulness of authentic detail which only one source could supply.[4]

'Although he had suffered often from the unhealthy and depressing climate of Calcutta during the summer and autumn of 1862, and thus, to the eyes that saw him again in 1863, he looked many years older than when he left England, yet it was not till he entered the Hills that any symptom manifested itself of the fatal malady that was lurking under his apparently stout frame and strong const.i.tution. The splendid scenery of those vast forests and snow-clad mountains inspired him with the liveliest pleasure; but the highly rarefied atmosphere, which to most residents in India is as life from the dead, seemed in him to have the exactly reverse effect.

'It was on the 12th of October that he ascended the Rotung Pa.s.s, and on the 13th he crossed the famous Twig Bridge over the river Chandra. It is remarkable for the rude texture of birch branches of which it is composed, and which, at this late season, was so rent and shattered by the wear and tear of the past year as to render the pa.s.sage of it a matter of great exertion. Lord Elgin was completely prostrated by the effort, and it may be said that from the exhaustion consequent on this adventure he never rallied. But he returned to his camp, and continued his march on horseback, until, on the 22nd, an alarming attack obliged him to be carried, by slow stages, to Dhurmsala. There he was joined, on the 4th of November, by his friend and medical adviser, Dr. Macrae, who had been summoned from Calcutta, on the first alarming indications of his illness. By this time the disorder had declared itself in such a form as to cause the most serious apprehensions to others, as well as to himself the most distressing sufferings. There had been a momentary rally, during which the fact of his illness had been communicated to England. But this pa.s.sed away; and on the 6th of November Dr. Macrae came to the conclusion that the illness was mortal. This intelligence, which he communicated at once to Lord Elgin, was received with a calmness and fort.i.tude which never deserted him through all the scenes which followed. It was impossible not to be struck by the courage and presence of mind with which, in the presence of a death unusually terrible, and accompanied by circ.u.mstances unusually trying, he showed, in equal degrees and with the most unvarying constancy, two of the grandest elements of human character--unselfish resignation of himself to the will of G.o.d, and thoughtful consideration, down to the smallest particulars, for the interests and feelings of others, both public and private.

'When once he had satisfied himself, by minute inquiries from Dr. Macrae, of the true state of the case, after one deep, earnest, heartfelt regret that he should thus suddenly be parted from those nearest and dearest, to whom his life was of such inestimable importance, and that he should be removed just as he had prepared himself to benefit the people committed to his charge, he steadily set his face heavenward. He was startled, he was awed; he felt it "hard, hard, to believe that his life was condemned;" but there was no looking backward. Of the officers of his staff he took an affectionate leave on that day. "It is well," he said to one of them, "that I should die in harness." And thenceforth he saw no one habitually, except Dr. Macrae, who combined with his medical skill the tenderness and devotion at once of a friend and of a pastor; his attached secretary, Mr. Thurlow, who had rendered him the most faithful services, not only through the period of his Indian Vice-royalty, but during his last mission to China; and Her who had shared his every thought, and whose courageous spirit now rose above the weakness of the fragile frame, equal to the greatness of the calamity, and worthy of him to whom, by night and day, she constantly ministered.

'On the following day, the clergyman whom he had ordered to be summoned, and for whose arrival he waited with much anxiety, reached Dhurmsala, and administered the Holy Communion to himself and those with him. "We are now entering on a New Communion," he had said that morning, "the Living and the Dead," and his spirit then appeared to master pain and weakness, and to sustain him in a holy calm during the ceremony, and for a few hours afterwards. "It is a comfort," he whispered, "to have laid aside all the cares of this world, and put myself in the hands of G.o.d;" and he was able to listen at intervals to favourite pa.s.sages from the New Testament. That evening closed in with an aggravation of suffering. It was the evening of the seventeenth anniversary of his wedding-day.

'On the following morning, Lady Elgin, with his approval, rode up to the cemetery at Dhurmsala to select a spot for his grave; and he gently expressed pleasure when told of the quiet and beautiful aspect of the spot chosen, with the glorious view of the snowy range towering above, and the wide prospect of hill and plain below.

'The days and nights of the fortnight which followed were a painful alternation of severe suffering and rare intervals of comparative tranquillity. They were soothed by the never-failing devotion of those that were always at hand to read to him or to receive his remarks. He often asked to hear chosen chapters from the Book of Isaiah (as the 40th and 55th), sometimes murmuring over to himself any striking verses that they contained, and at other times repeating by heart favourite Psalms. At times he delighted to hear his little girl, who had been the constant companion of his travels, repeat some of Keble's hymns, especially those on the festivals of St. John the Evangelist and of the Holy Innocents.

'Until his strength failed him, he was carried at times into the verandah, and showed by words and looks his constant admiration at the grand evidences of G.o.d's power and goodness in the magnificence of the scenery before him; and on one such occasion was delighted with the sublime description of the wonders of nature in the 38th and 39th chapters of the Book of Job.

'At times he was able to enter into conversation and argument on serious subjects. When, under the pressure of his sufferings, he was one night entreating to be released--"O that G.o.d would in mercy come and take me"-- Dr. Macrae reminded him of the dread of pain and death which seems to be expressed in the account of the Agony of Gethsemane, and he appeared to find much comfort in the thought, repeating once or twice that he had not seen it in this light before, and several times saying with fervour, "Not my will, but Thine be done." At other times, he could even be led, by way of steadying his wandering thoughts amidst the distraction of restlessness, to fix them on his school and college days, to tell anecdotes of his hard reading, or to describe the visit to Oxford of his venerable friend Dr.

Chalmers. He dwelt in this way on a sermon of Dr. Chalmers at Glasgow, which he remembered even in detail, and from which he quoted some eloquent pa.s.sages, bringing out the general scope of the sermon, to the effect that, rather than teach people to hate this bad world, we should teach them to love and look up to a better one.[5]

'It will naturally be understood that long converse was nearly impossible.

As occasions rose, a few words were breathed, an appropriate verse quoted, and a few minutes were all that could be given at any one time to discourse upon it. It is characteristic of his strong, cheerful faith, even during those last trying moments, that he on one occasion asked to have the more supplicatory, penitential Psalms exchanged for those of praise and thanksgiving, in which he joined, knowing them already by heart; and in the same strain of calm yet triumphant hope, he whispered to himself on the night when his alarming state was first made known to him, "Hallelujah; the Lord G.o.d Omnipotent reigneth. We shall all meet again."

'That thought was raised to its highest pitch by the sight of a portrait of a beloved son, who had died in England during his absence. It arrived in the close of those sad days. He recognised it with a burst of tenderness and delight which at once lifted his mind above the suffering of his mortal illness. Again and again he desired to see it, and to speak of it, with the fixed conviction that he and his "angel boy," as he called him, would soon meet in a better world. "Oh, when shall I be with you?" "You know where he is; we shall all go to him; he is happy."

'Every care had been taken for the public interests, and for the interests of those still nearer and dearer to him. He had laid the most solemn charge on his faithful secretary to conduct Lady Elgin home on her mournful and solitary voyage. He had given to Dr. Macrae, with the tenderest marks of affection, a turquoise ring: "We have had a long struggle together; keep this in memory of it." He had dictated a telegram to the Queen resigning his office, with a request that his successor might be immediately appointed.

'With this exception, public affairs seem to have faded from his mind. "I must resign myself to doing no work. I have not sufficient control over my thoughts. I have washed my hands of it all." But it was remarkable that, as the end drew nearer, the keen sense of public duty once more flashed up within him. It was on the 19th that he could not help expressing his wonder what was meant by his long lingering; and once, half wandering, he whispered, "If I did not die, I might get to Lah.o.r.e, and carry out the original programme." Later on in the day he sent for Mr. Thurlow, and desired that a message should be sent, through Sir Charles Wood, expressive of his love and devotion to the Queen, and of his determination to do his work to the last possible moment. His voice, faint and inaudible at first, gained strength with the earnestness of the words which came forth as if direct from his heart, and which, as soon as p.r.o.nounced, left him prostrate with the exertion. He begged, at the same time, that his "best blessing"

might be sent to the Secretaries of the Indian Government, and also a private message to Sir Charles Wood in England.

'These were his last public acts. A few words and looks of intense affection for his wife and child were all that escaped him afterwards. One more night of agonized restlessness, followed by an almost sudden close of the long struggle, and a few moments of perfect calm, and his spirit was released.

'His death was on the 20th of November, and on the 21st he was privately buried, at his own request, on the spot selected beforehand.'

He was cut off, as those felt most keenly who were most capable of judging, 'just at the moment when his best qualities were about to show themselves;'

just when the information and experience which he had acc.u.mulated were beginning to ripen into confidence in his knowledge of the country; and to the historian his figure must remain as an unfinished _torso_ in the gallery of our Indian rulers. But those who have read the foregoing pages, more especially the fragments which they contain of his own words and writings, will have derived from them some impression of the varied ability, the steady conscientious industry, the genial temper, the 'combination of fertility of resource with simplicity of aim,' of firmness with tact, of cautious sagacity with prompt resolution, which might have found even larger scope in the government of India than in the active and eventful life which has been described.

These attributes, however, do not make up the man, such as he lives in the memory of those who saw him most nearly. Beneath the manifold outward workings of his strong and capable nature there flowed a 'buried life' of depth more than proportionate.

After his death, one who had known him long and intimately, on being asked what he considered to be the most distinguishing characteristic of his deceased friend, answered at once, 'Disinterestedness: he seemed utterly incapable of regarding any subject except with a view to the interests of his country. And next to that,' he added, 'affectionateness; I never can forget the grief he showed at the death of his first wife; I thought he never would have held up his head again.' How this tenderness deepened and mellowed in the husband and father of later years, some slight indications may be found in the letters that precede.

Disinterested devotion to public duty; tender and affectionate sympathies; a pa.s.sionate love of justice, showing itself especially in a religious regard for the rights of the weak; all resting on the foundation of a firm and loving trust in G.o.d; these, far more than his ability or his eloquence, are the qualities that made him what he was: the qualities, by the exercise and imitation of which, those who seek to do him honour may best perpetuate his memory.

There is one spot from which that memory is not likely soon to pa.s.s away: the spot towards which, in his most distant wanderings, his thoughts turned with even more than the ordinary longing of a Scotsman for the place of his birth, and always with the fond hope that he might be permitted--

life's long vexation past, There to return, and die at home at last.

'Wherever else he was honoured' (to borrow again from the author already quoted), 'and however few were his visits to his native land, yet Scotland at least always delighted to claim him as her own. Always his countrymen were proud to feel that he worthily bore the name most dear to Scottish hearts. Always his unvarying integrity shone to them with the steady light of an unchanging beacon above the stormy discords of the Scottish church and nation. Whenever he returned to his home in Fifeshire, he was welcomed by all, high and low, as their friend and chief. Here at any rate were fully known the industry with which he devoted himself to the small details of local, often trying and troublesome business; the affectionate confidence with which he took counsel of the fidelity and experience of the aged friends and servants of his house; the cheerful contentment with which he was willing to work for their interests and for those of his family, with the same fairness and patience as he would have given to the most exciting events or the most critical moments of his public career. There his children, young as they were, were made familiar with the union of wisdom and playfulness with which he guided them, and with the simple and self-denying habits of which he gave them so striking an example. By that ancestral home, in the vaults of the Abbey Church of Dunfermline, would have been his natural resting-place. Those vaults had but two years ago been opened to receive the remains of another of the same house, his brother, General Bruce, whose lamented death--also in the service of his Queen and country--followed immediately on his return from the journey in which he had accompanied the Prince of Wales to the East, and in which he had caught the fatal malady that brought him to his untimely end.... How little was it thought by those who stood round the vault at Dunfermline Abbey, on July 2, 1862, that to those familiar scenes, and to that hallowed spot, the chief of the race would never return. How mournfully did the tidings from India reach a third brother in the yet farther East, who felt that to him was due in great part whatever success he had experienced in life, even from the time when, during the elder brother's Eton holidays, he had enjoyed the benefit of his tuition, and who was indulging in dreams how, on their joint return from exile, with their varied experience of the East, they might have worked together for some great and useful end.[6]

'He sleeps far away from his native land, on the heights of Dhurmsala; a fitting grave, let us rejoice to think, for the Viceroy of India, overlooking from its lofty height the vast expanse of the hill and plain of these mighty provinces--a fitting burial beneath the snow-clad Himalaya range, for one who dwelt with such serene satisfaction on all that was grand and beautiful in man and nature--

Pondering G.o.d's mysteries untold, And, tranquil as the glacier snows, He by those Indian mountains old Might well repose.

'A last home, may we not say, of which the very name, with its double signification, was worthy of the spirit which there pa.s.sed away--"the Hall of Justice, the Place of Rest." Rest, indeed, to him after his long "laborious days," in that presence which to him was the only complete Rest --the presence of Eternal Justice.'

[1] One of the Indian journals of the day described the ceremony as follows:--'On Wednesday afternoon, the few Europeans in the station collected at five o'clock in the Memorial Garden and Monument. None, who had seen the spot after the subsidence of the Mutiny could recognise in the well-planned and well-kept garden, with its two graveyards, and the beautiful central Monument on its gra.s.sy mound, the site of the horrid slaughter-house which then stood in blood- stained ruin about the well, choked with the victims of the foulest treachery the world has ever seen.... The ceremonial was as simple as it well could be, and few ceremonies could be more impressive.... The Viceroy advanced to the top of the steps of the Memorial, and, through the Commissioners, formally requested the Bishop to consecrate that spot, and the adjacent burial-places. The Bishop, taking his place, then headed a procession of the clergy and the people present, and proceeded round the two burial-places and the interior of the Memorial itself, with music playing and soldiers chanting the 49th, 115th, 139th, and 23rd Psalms. After this, his chaplain read the form of consecration, which was signed by the Bishop; and, the 90th Psalm having been sung, he shortly addressed those present in most feeling, manly, and impressive terms befitting the occasion; and the ceremonial concluded with prayers read by the chaplain of the station, closing with the benediction by the Bishop.' The Bishop was the lamented George Cotton. See his Life, p. 286.

[2] _The Company and the Crown._ By the Hon. T. J. Hovell- Thurlow.

[3] One of the side valleys which run up northwards from the main valley of the Beas.

[4] For permission to use this narrative the Editor has to thank not only its author, Arthur Stanley, Dean of Westminster (and it is but a small part of the obligations to him connected with this work), but also the proprietors of the _North British Review_, in which it appeared.

[5] 'The Expulsive Power of a New Affection.'--_Commercial Discourses_, No. IX.

[6] That third brother, Sir Frederick Bruce, was laid in that same vault, when his remains were brought home from Boston, where he was suddenly cut off in 1867 at his post as Minister to the United States.