an accident happened, which must, I think, in the judgment of every worthy and generous man, be deemed a sufficient apology for exposing his life to so great a hazard, when his regiment had left him.[*] He saw that a party of foot, who were then bravely fighting near him, and whom he was ordered to support, had no officer to head them; upon which he said eagerly, in the hearing of the person from whom I had this account, “Those brave fellows will be cut to pieces for want of a commander,”–or words to that effect. So saying, he rode up to them, and cried out aloud, “Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing.” But, just as the words were out of his mouth, a Highlander advanced towards him with a scythe, fastened on a long pole, with which he gave him such a deep wound on his right arm, that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at the same time several others coming about him while he was thus dreadfully entangled with that cruel weapon, he was dragged off his horse. The moment he fell another Highlander, who, if the crown witness at Carlisle may be credited, (as I know not why he should not, though the unhappy creature died denying it,) was one M’Naught, who was executed about a year after, gave him a stroke either with a broadsword or a Lochaber axe, (for my informant could not exactly distinguish,) on the hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow. All that his faithful attendant saw further at this time was, that as his hat had fallen off, he took it in his left hand, and waved it as a signal to him to retreat; and added, (the last words he ever heard him speak,) “Take care of yourself;” upon which the servant retired.
[*Note: The colonel, who was well acquainted with military history, might possibly remember that in the battle at Blenheim, the illustrious Prince Eugene, when the horse of the wing which he commanded had run away thrice, charged at the head of the foot, and thereby greatly contributed to the glorious success of the day. At least such an example may conduce to vindicate that noble ardour which, amidst all the applauses of his country, some have been so cool and so critical as to blame. For my part, I thank God that I am not called to apologize for his following his troops in their flight, which I fear would have been a much harder task; and which, dear as he was to me, would have grieved me much more than his death, with these heroic circumstances attending it.]
It was reported at Edinburgh, on the day of the battle, by what seemed a considerable authority, that as the colonel lay in his wounds, he said to a chief of the opposite side, “You are fighting for an earthly crown, I am going to receive a heavenly one,”–or something to that purpose. When I preached the sermon, long since printed, on occasion of his death, I had great reason to believe this report was true, though, before the publication of it, I began to be in doubt; and, on the whole, after the most accurate inquiry I could possibly make at this distance, I cannot get any convincing evidence of it. Yet I must here observe that it does not appear impossible that something of this kind might indeed be uttered by him, as his servant testifies that he spoke to him after receiving that fatal blow, which would seem most likely to have taken away the power of speech, and as it is certain he lived several hours after he fell. If, therefore, any thing of this kind did happen, it must have been just before this instant. But as to the story of his being taken prisoner and carried to the pretended Prince, (who, by the way, afterwards rode his horse, and entered into Derby upon it,) with several other circumstances which were grafted upon that interview, there is the most undoubted evidence of its falsehood; for his attendant above mentioned assures me that he himself immediately fled to a mill, at the distance of about two miles from the spot on which the colonel fell, where he changed his dress, and, disguised like a miller’s servant, returned with a cart as soon as possible, which yet was not till nearly two hours after the engagement. The hurry of the action was then pretty well over, and he found his much-honoured master not only plundered of his watch and other things of value, but also stripped of his upper garments and boots, yet still breathing; and adds, that though he was not capable of speech, yet, on taking him up, he opened his eyes; which makes it something questionable whether he was altogether insensible. In this condition, and in this manner, he conveyed him to the church of Tranent, from whence he was immediately taken into the minister’s house, and laid in bed, where he continued breathing and frequently groaning till about eleven in the forenoon, when he took his final leave of pain and sorrow, and undoubtedly rose to those distinguished glories which are reserved for those who have been eminently and remarkably faithful unto death.
From the moment he fell, it was no longer a battle, but a rout and carnage. The cruelties which the rebels (as it is generally said under the command of Lord Elcho,) inflicted on some of the king’s troops after they had asked quarter, are dreadfully legible on the countenances of many who survived it. They entered Colonel Gardiner’s house before he was carried off from the field, and notwithstanding the strict orders which the unhappy Duke of Perth (whose conduct is said to have been very humane in many instances,) gave to the contrary, every thing of value was plundered, to the very curtains of the beds, and hangings of the rooms. His papers were all thrown into the wildest disorder, and his house made an hospital for the reception of those who were wounded in the action.
Such was the close of a life which had been zealously devoted to God, and filled up with many honourable services. Such was the death of him who had been so highly favoured by God in the method by which he was brought back to him after so long and so great an estrangement, and in the progress of so many years, during which (in the expressive phrase of the most ancient of writers,) “he had walked with him;”–to fall, as God threatened the people of his wrath that they should do, “with tumult, with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet.” Amos ii. 2. Several other very worthy, and some of them very eminent persons, shared the same fate, either now at the battle of Prestonpans, or quickly after at that of Falkirk;[*] Providence, no doubt, permitting it, to establish our faith in the rewards of an invisible world, as well as to teach us to cease from man, and fix our dependence on an Almighty arm.
[*Note: Of these, none were more memorable than those illustrious brothers, Mr. Robert Munro and Dr. Munro, whose tragical but glorious fate was also shared quietly after by a third hero of the family, Captain Munro, of Culcairn, brother to Sir Robert and the Doctor.]
The remains of this Christian hero (as I believe every reader is now convinced he may justly be called,) were interred the Tuesday following, September 24, in the parish church at Tranent, where he had usually attended divine service, with great solemnity. His obsequies were honoured with the presence of some persons of distinction, who were not afraid of paying that mark of respect to his memory, though the country was then in the hands of the enemy. But, indeed, there was no great hazard in this; for his character was so well known, that even they themselves spoke honourably of him, and seemed to join with his friends in lamenting the fall of so brave and so worthy a man.
The remotest posterity will remember for whom the honour of subduing this unnatural and pernicious rebellion was reserved; and it will endear the Duke of Cumberland to all but the open or secret abettors of it in the present age, and consecrate his name to immortal honours among all the friends of religion and liberty who shall arise after us. And, I dare say, it will not be imagined that I at all derogate from his glory in suggesting, that the memory of that valiant and excellent person whose memoirs I am now concluding may in some measure have contributed to that signal and complete victory with which God was pleased to crown the arms of his Royal Highness; for the force of such an example is very animating, and a painful consciousness of having deserted such a commander in such extremity, must at least awaken, where there was any spark of generosity, an earnest desire to avenge his death on those who had sacrificed his blood, and that of so many other excellent persons, to the views of their ambition, rapine or bigotry.
The reflections which I have made in my funeral sermon on my honoured friend, and in the dedication of it to his worthy and most afflicted lady, supersede many things which might otherwise have properly been added here. I conclude, therefore, with humbly acknowledging the wisdom and goodness of that awful Providence which drew so thick a gloom around him in the last hours of his life, that the lustre of his virtues might dart through it with a more vivid and observable ray. It is abundant matter of thankfulness that so signal a monument of grace, and ornament of the Christian profession, was raised in our age and country, and spared for so many honourable and useful years. Nor can all the tenderness of the most affectionate friendship, while its sorrows bleed afresh in the view of so tragical a scene, prevent my adoring the gracious appointment of the great Lord of all events, that when the day in which he must have expired without an enemy appeared so very near, the last ebb of his generous blood should be poured out, as a kind of sacred libation, to the liberties of his country, and the honour of his God! that all the other virtues of his character, embalmed as it were by that precious stream, might diffuse around a more extensive fragrance, and be transmitted to the most remote posterity with that peculiar charm which they cannot but derive from their connection with so gallant a fall–an event (as that blessed apostle, of whose spirit he so deeply drank, has expressed it) “according to his earnest expectation, and his hope that in him Christ might be glorified in all things, whether by his life or by his death.”
THE COLONEL’S PERSONAL APPEARANCE.
In the midst of so many more important articles, I had really forgotten to say any thing of the person of Colonel Gardiner, of which, nevertheless, it may be proper here to add a word or two. He was, as I was informed, in younger life remarkably graceful and amiable; and I can easily believe it, from what I knew him to be when our acquaintance began, though he was then turned of fifty, and had gone through so many fatigues as well as dangers, which could not but leave some traces on his countenance. He was tall, (I suppose something more than six feet,) well proportioned, and strongly built; his eyes of a dark gray, and not very large; his forehead pretty high; his nose of a length and height no way remarkable, but very well suited to his other features; his cheeks not very prominent; his mouth moderately large, and his chin rather a little inclining (when I knew him) to be peaked. He had a strong voice and lively accent, with an air very intrepid, yet attempered with much gentleness. There was something in his manner of address most perfectly easy and obliging, which was in great measure the result of the great candour and benevolence of his natural temper, and which, no doubt, was much improved by the deep humility which divine grace had wrought in his heart, as well as his having been accustomed from his early youth to the company of persons of distinguished rank and polite behaviour.
The picture of him, which is given at the beginning of these memoirs, was taken from an original done by Van Deest (a Dutchman brought into Scotland by general Wade,) in the year 1727, which was the 40th of his age, and is said to have been very like him then, though far from being an exact resemblance of what he was when I had the happiness of being acquainted with him.[*] Perhaps he would have appeared to the greatest advantage of all, could he have been exactly drawn on horseback; as many very good judges, and among the rest the celebrated Mons. Faubert himself, have spoken of him as one of the completest horsemen that has ever been known; and there was indeed something so singularly graceful in his appearance in that attitude, that it was sufficient (as what is very eminent in its kind generally is,) to strike an eye not formed on any critical rules.
[*Note: In presenting this likeness for the first time in an American edition of this work, the artist has taken the liberty to change the costume, by substituting the ordinary military dress for the court dress of the original.–_Editor of the Pres. Board of Publication_.]
[Transcriber’s Note: The Portrait is not available.]
APPENDIX I.
(Referred to at the end of Chapter VI, LETTERS.)
It may not be amiss, in illustration of Dr. Doddridge’s remarks on the subject of dreams, to present to the reader the following account of a remarkable dream which occurred to the Doctor himself, and had a beneficial influence on his own mind.–ED. PRES. BD. PUB.
DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM.
Dr. Doddridge and Dr. Samuel Clark, of St. Alban’s, having been conversing in the evening upon the nature of the separate state, and the probability that the scenes on which the soul would enter, at its first leaving the body, would have some resemblance to those things it had been conversant with while on earth, that it might by degrees be prepared for the more sublime happiness of the heavenly state, this and other conversation of the same kind probably occasioned the following dream.
The Doctor imagined himself dangerously ill at a friend’s house in London, and after remaining in this state for some hours, he thought his soul left his body, and took its flight in some kind of a fine vehicle, though very different from the gross body it had just quitted, but still material. He pursued his course through the air, expecting some celestial messenger to meet him, till he was at some distance from the city, when turning back and viewing the town, he could not forbear saying to himself, “How vain do those affairs in which the inhabitants of this place are so eagerly employed, seem to me a separate spirit!” At length, as he was continuing his progress, though without any certain directions, yet easy and happy in the thoughts of the universal providence and government of God, which extends alike to all states and worlds, he was now met by one who told him he was sent to conduct him to this destined state of abode, from which he concluded it was an angel, though he appeared in the form of an elderly man. They accordingly advanced together, till they came within sight of a large spacious building, which had the air of a palace. Upon his inquiring what it was, his guide replied, it was the place assigned for him at present; upon which the Doctor wondered that he had read on earth, “that eye had not seen, nor ear had heard, the glory laid up for them that love God,” when he could easily have formed an idea of such a building, from others he had seen, though he acknowledged they were greatly inferior to this in elegance and magnificence. The answer, his guide told him, was plainly suggested by the conversation of the evening before, and that the scenes presented to him were purposely contrived to bear a near resemblance to those he had been accustomed to on earth, that his mind might be more easily and gradually prepared for those glories which would open upon him hereafter, and which would at first have quite dazzled and overpowered him. By this time they came to the palace, and his guide led him through a kind of saloon into an inner parlour. The first object that struck him was a great golden cup which stood upon a table, on which was embossed the figure of a vine and clusters of grapes. He asked his guide the meaning of it; who told him that it was the cup in which his Saviour drank new wine with his disciples in his kingdom; and that the figures carved on it denoted the union between Christ and his Church, implying, that as the grapes derived all their beauty and flavour from the vine, so the saints, even in a state of glory, were indebted for their establishment in holiness and happiness, to their union with their common Head, in whom they are all complete. While they were conversing, he heard a tap at the door, and was informed by the angel that it was a signal of his Lord’s approach, and was intended to prepare him for an interview. Accordingly, in a short time our Saviour entered the room, and upon his casting himself at his feet, he graciously raised him up, and with a smile of inexpressible complacency, assured him of his favour, and kind acceptance of his faithful services, and as a token of his peculiar regard, and the intimate friendship with which he intended to honour him, he took the cup, and after drinking of it himself, gave it into the Doctor’s hand. The Doctor would have declined it at first, as too great an honour; but our Lord replied, as to Peter in washing his feet, “If thou drinkest not with me, thou hast no part with me.” This he observed filled him with such a transport of gratitude, love and admiration, that he was ready to sink under it. His master seemed sensible of this, and told him he must leave him for the present, but would not be long before he repeated his visit. As soon as our Lord was retired, and the Doctor’s mind more composed, he observed that the room was hung with pictures, and upon examining them, he found to his great surprise, that they contained all the history of his life; and most remarkable scenes he had passed through, being there represented in a very lively manner–the many temptations and trials he had been exposed to, and the signal instances of the divine goodness in the different periods of his life. It may not be easily imagined how this would strike and affect his mind. It excited in him the strongest emotions of gratitude, especially when he reflected that he was now out of the reach of any future danger, and that all the purposes of divine love towards him were so amply accomplished. The exstacy of joy and gratitude, into which these reflections threw him, was so great that he awoke; but for some time after he awoke the impression continued so lively that tears of joy flowed down his cheeks, and he said that he never, on any occasion, remembered to have had sentiments of devotion and love equal to it.
APPENDIX II.
(Referred to in Chapter VII, DOMESTIC RELATIONS.)
The following extract from Dr. Doddridge’s “Thoughts on Sacramental Occasions,” gives a beautiful and edifying picture of the exercises of his affectionate and pious heart under a painful bereavement.
THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH SACRAMENT, OCTOBER 3, 1736.
DEAR BETSEY DEAD.[1]
I had preached in the bitterness of my heart from these words: “Is it well with thy husband? is it well with the child? And she answered, It is well.” 2 Kings iv. 26. I endeavoured to show the reason there was to say this; but surely there was never any dispensation of Providence in which I found it so hard, for my very soul had been overwhelmed within me. Indeed, some hard thoughts of the mercy of God were ready to arise; and the apprehension of his heavy displeasure, and the fear of my child’s future state, added fuel to the fire.
Upon the whole, my mind was in the most painful agitation; but it pleased God, that, in composing the sermon, my soul became quieted, and I was brought into a more silent and cordial submission to the Divine will.
At the table I discoursed on these words, “Although my house be not so with God.” 2 Samuel xxiii. 5. I observed, that domestic calamities may befall good men in their journey through life, and particularly in relation to their children; but that they have a refuge in God’s covenant; it is everlasting; it is sure; it is well ordered–every provision is made according to our necessities; and shall be our salvation, as it is the object of our most affectionate regard.
One further circumstance I must record; and that is, that I here solemnly recollected that I had, in a former sacrament taken the cup with these words, “Lord, I take this cup as a public and solemn token that I will refuse no other cup which thou shalt put into my hand.” I mentioned this recollection, and charged it publicly on myself and my Christian friends. God has taken me at my word, but I do not retract it; I repeat it again with regard to every future cup.
I am just come from the coffin of my dear child, who seemes to be sweetly asleep there, with a serene, composed, delightful countenance, once how animated with double life! There–lo! O my soul! lo there! is thine idol laid still in death–the creature which stood next to God in thine heart; to whom it was opened with a fond and flattering delight. Methinks I would learn to be dead with her–dead to the world. Oh that I could be dead with her, not any further than that her dear memory may promote my living to God.[*]
[*Note: The following note was written in the margin of the manuscript by the late Rev. Thomas Stedman: “I think I have heard that the doctor wrote his funeral sermon for his daughter, or a part of it, upon her coffin.”]
I had a great deal of very edifying, conversation last night and his morning with my wife, whose wisdom does indeed make her face to shine under this affliction. She is supported and armoured with a courage which seems not at all natural to her; talks with the utmost freedom, and has really said many of the most useful things that ever were said to me by any person upon the earth, both as to consolation and admonition. Had the best things I have read on the subject been collected together, they could hardly have been better conceived or better expressed. This is to me very surprising when I consider her usual reserve. I have all imaginable reason to believe that God will make this affliction a great blessing to her, and I hope it may prove so to me. There was a fond delight and complacence which I took in Betsey beyond any thing living. Although she had not a tenth part of that rational, manly love, which I pay to her mourning and many surviving friends; yet it leaves a peculiar pain upon my heart, and it is almost as if my very gall were poured out upon the earth. Yet much sweetness mingles itself with this bitter potion, chiefly in the view and hope of my speedy removal to the eternal world. May it not be the bounty of this providence, that instead of her living many years upon the earth, God may have taken away my child that I might be fitted for and reconciled to my own dissolution, perhaps nearly approaching? I verily believe that I shall meet her there, and enjoy much more of her in heaven than I should have done had she survived me on earth. Lord, thy will be done; may my life be used for the service while continued, and then put thou a period to it whenever thou pleasest.
[Footnote 1: The following extract from the Diary of Dr. Doddridge is here subjoined, as affording an explanation of some particulars alluded to in the text.
REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF MY DEAR CHILD, AND THE MANY MOURNFUL PROVIDENCES ATTENDING IT.
I have a great deal of reason to condemn my own negligence and folly, that for so many months I have suffered no memorandums of what has passed between God and my soul, although some of the transactions were very remarkable, as well as some things which I have heard concerning others; but the subject of this article is the most melancholy of any. We lost my dear and reverend brother and friend, Mr. Sanders, on the 31st of July last; on the 1st of September, Lady Russell–that invaluable friend, died at Reading on her road from Bath; and on Friday, the 1st of October, God was pleased, by a most awful stroke, to take away my eldest, dearest child, my lovely Betsey. She was formed to strike my affections in the most powerful manner; such a person, genius, and temper, as I admired even beyond their real importance, so that indeed I doted upon her, and was for many months before her death in a great degree of bondage upon her account. She was taken ill at Newport about the middle of June, and from thence to the day of her death, she was my continual thought, and almost uninterrupted care. God only knows with what earnestness and importunity I prostrated myself before him to beg her life, which I would have been willing almost to have purchased with my own. When reduced to the lowest degree of languishment by a consumption, I could not forbear looking upon her almost every hour. I saw her with the strongest mixture of anguish and delight; no chemist ever watched his crucible with greater care, when he expected the production of the philosopher’s stone, than I watched her in all the various turns of her distemper, which at last grew utterly hopeless, and then no language can express the agony into which it threw me. One remarkable circumstance I cannot but recollect: in praying most affectionately, perhaps too earnestly, for her life, these words came into my mind with great power, “Speak no more to me of this matter.” I was unwilling to take them, and went into the chamber to see my dear lamb, when, instead of receiving me with her usual tenderness, she looked upon me with a stern air, and said, with a very remarkable determination of voice, “I have no more to say to you;” and I think that from that time, although she lived at least ten days, she seldom looked upon me with pleasure, or cared to suffer me to come near her. But that I might feel all the bitterness of the affliction, Providence so ordered it, that I came in when her sharpest agonies were upon her, and those words, “O dear, O dear, what shall I do?” rung in my ears for succeeding hours and days. But God delivered her,–and she, without any violent pang in the article of her dissolution, quietly and sweetly fell asleep, as I hope, in Jesus, about ten at night, I being then at Maidwell. When I came home my mind was under a dark cloud relating to the eternal state; but God was pleased graciously to remove it, and gave me comfortable hopes, after having felt the most heart-rending sorrow. My dear wife bore the affliction in the most glorious manner, and discovered more wisdom, and piety, and steadiness of temper in a few days, than I had ever in six years an opportunity of observing before. O my soul, God has blasted thy gourd; thy greatest earthly delight is gone: seek it in heaven, where I hope this dear babe is; where I am sure that my Saviour is; and where I trust, through grace, notwithstanding all this irregularity of temper and of heart, that I shall shortly be.
Sunday, October 3, 1736
FURTHER REFLECTIONS AFTER THE FUNERAL OF MY DEAR BETSEY.
I have now been laying the delight of my eyes in the dust, and it is for ever hidden from them. My heart was too full to weep much. We had a suitable sermon from these words: “Doest thou well to be angry?” Jonah iv. 9; because of the gourd. I hope God knows that I am not angry; but sorrowful he surely allows me to be. I could have wished that more had been said concerning the hope we may have of our child; and it was a great disappointment to me that nothing of that kind should have been said by one that loved her so well as my brother Hunt did. Yet, I bless God, I have my hopes that she is lodged in the arms of Christ. And there was an occurrence that I took much notice of; I was most earnestly praying that God would be pleased to give me some further encouragement on this head, by letting some new light, or by directing me to some further thoughts upon the subject. Soon after, as I came into my wife’s chamber, she told me that our maid Betty, who had indeed the affection of a parent for my dear girl, had just before assured her, that, on the Sabbath day evening, Betsey would be repeating to herself some things of what she had heard in my prayers and in my preachings, but did not care to talk of it to others; and my wife assured me that she solemnly recommended herself to God in the words that I had taught her a little before she died. Blessed God, hast thou not received her? I trust that thou hast, and pardoned the infirmities of her poor, short, childish, afflicted life. I hope, in some measure out of love to me, as thy servant, thou hast done it, for Christ’s sake; and I would consider the very hope, as an engagement to thy future service. Lord, I love those who were kind to my child, and wept with me for her; shall I not much more love thee, who, I hope, art at this moment taking care of her, and opening her infant faculties for the duties and blessedness of heaven.
Lord, I would consider myself as a dying creature. My first born is gone;–my beloved child is laid in bed before me. I have often followed her to her bed in a literal sense; and shortly I shall follow her to that, where we shall lie down together, and our rest shall be together in the dust. In a literal sense the grave is ready for me. My grave is made–I have looked into it–a dear part of myself is already there; and when I stood at the Lord’s table I stood directly over it. It is some pleasure to me to think that my dust will be lodged near that of my dear lamb, how much more to hope that my soul will rest with hers, and rejoice in her forever! But, O, let me not centre my thoughts even here; it is at rest with, and in God, that is my ultimate hope. Lord, may thy grace secure it to me! and in the mean time give me some holy acquiescence of soul in thee; and although my gourd be withered, yet shelter me under the shadow of thy wings.
October 4, 1736.]