Excuse my troubling you with these details; and believe me to be truly grateful for your graceful tribute to our dear father. I send a few lines for your private eye, written by my sister Mary, expressing what she felt on last seeing him, and it expresses, too, exactly what I felt that last Good Friday as he sat in that chair in which he had so long suffered. I never saw him there again, With deep respect, gratefully yours, S.A. TERROT.
LINES by MISS MARY TERROT, now MRS. MALCOLM.
Sad, silent, broken down, longing for rest,
His noble head bent meekly on his breast,
Bent to the bitter storm that o’er it swept;
I looked my last, and surely, then I thought,
Surely the conflict’s o’er, the battle’s fought;
To see him thus, the Saviour might have wept.
His rest was near—his everlasting rest;
No more I saw him weary and oppressed.
There in the majesty of death he lay
For ever comforted: I could not weep;
He slept, dear father! his last blessed sleep,
Bright in the dawn of the eternal day.
And thou, whose hand his, groping, sought at
The faithful hand that he might hold it fast!
Once more, when parting on the eternal shore,
It may be, when thy heart and hand shall fail,
Entering the shadows of death’s awful vale
His hand shall grasp thine, groping then no more.
DEAN STANLEY to DEAN RAMSAY.
My dear Dean—Many thanks for your very interesting memoir of Bishop Terrot. His remark about humdrum and humbug is worthy of the best days of Sydney Smith, and so is a hit about table-turning. I once heard him preach, and still remember with pleasure the unexpected delight it gave to my dear mother and myself. We did not know in the least what was coming, either from the man or the text, and it was excellent.—Yours sincerely,
Deanery, Westminster, 1872.
Right Hon. W.E. GLADSTONE to DEAN RAMSAY.
Hawarden, May 26, 1872
My dear Friend—I
have read with much interest your graceful
and kindly memoir of Bishop Terrot, which you were so good as
to send me.