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apprehensive of knowledge, he could not have failed to reach one of the foremost stations in political life. His probable success in the House of Commons was oftentimes among his friends a subject of discussion. Some said it would have been a total failure, for he had not cultivated parliamentary talents; others said that the energy of his mind and character would have enabled him to triumph in debate; but such adverse opinions were perhaps equally erroneous. Had Drummond lived to enter the House of Commons, he would at first have failed, and even signally so. He would have found it very difficult to suit himself to the House, and to adapt his mind to that particular method of discussion which the House prefers; he would not have been able for a long time to acquire the skill by which a man conveys his knowledge of an intricate question to an assembly so mixed in its character as the House of Commons. But practice and time would have made him an efficient every-day debater; he would have been unsurpassed in the labours of committees; and, in the course of a few years, he would have amassed an amount of political knowledge that would have enabled him at any time to command the ear of the House.”

The rest of this confident verdict is, that Drummond's integrity, personal disinterestedness, manly and loveable qualities, and constant efforts at self-improvement, would have made him most popular amongst the members on both sides of the House. But what might have followed from this popularity, and from his gaining the ear of the House, is not conjectured. Quite as well so. The speculations are of value only as showing the estimation in which the man was held by some of those who knew him.




In the winter of 1839 Mr Drummond's health again became visibly impaired. “Illness,” says Larcom, “succeeded illness, each inconsiderable, but together showing that while the mind increased in


power, and from every exercise and every conquest sprung to yet loftier efforts, mortality prevailed and strength declined."

There is a budget before me of the letters which he wrote to his “dearest dear mother" in these few last months of his life. They are mostly occupied by statements intended to allay her solicitude and calm her fears. His own courage seems never to have failed; his own fears never to have been fairly aroused. He was suffering in these months from a throat affection, which he affected to take lightly, probably with the view of saving his mother distress.

“ I do assure you, my dearest dear mother,” he wrote on February 2, 1840, “ that you are distressing yourself very unnecessarily about me. I have carefully told you the whole extent of throat affection, which is really very trifling. It is so much diminished that I am going to the office to-morrow; but if it be not gone entirely by the end of the week, I shall probably run over to Cheltenham for seven or eight days. I have no cough, and really very little discomfort.'

The visit to Cheltenham had to be paid. On the 16th February he wrote :

“MY DEAREST DEAR MOTHER,—I have just time to say that we are on the point of starting to sail this evening by the halfpast eleven o'clock packet for Liverpool ; the night calm and pleasant. All well here, pets and all. We go by railway to Birmingham, and thence to Cheltenham, where we shall remain. Maria sends her kindest love to you. Adieu, my dearest dear mother, and with kindest love to my ever dear Eliza, and affectionate remembrances to John, believe me, ever most affectionately yours,


There were subsequent letters, no doubt, but they have not been preserved. So far as appears, this was a last farewell.

He returned to Dublin by the end of February, and set to work again. On Friday, the 10th of April, he entertained a party of friends at dinner. He rode to the Castle as usual on Saturday morning, and spent nearly nine hours in his office. On Sunday morning he became seriously unwell. He became worse on Monday and Tuesday, and on Wednesday afternoon, April 15, 1840, he died. All that medical skill could do to avert death was done. Dr Johnstone was in constant attendance, while Sir Henry Marsh sat up all of one of the nights with him; and a young physician, a nephew of Sir Henry's, never left him night or day. The disease was considered to be internal erysipelas.

The incidents of his last illness are singular and affecting. I give them as they have been supplied to me.

“On the night before he died he asked to see bis children. He was dissuaded from this. He then begged Dr Johnstone to open a drawer, which he pointed out, where there were three small Bibles, each with a history attached to it. "Give these,' he said, 'to my children, with their papa's blessing. It is the best legacy I can leave them.'

“ A few hours before all was over, Dr Johnstone told him, in answer to his inquiries, that the closing scene was near. He laid his hand on his heart, and said, • Doctor, all is peace.'

Referring to this inward peace, he spoke of his mother, saying, “Tell my dear mother that, on my deathbed, I remembered the instructions I had received from her in childhood.'

“ In parting with his wife, he said to her, “Dearest, beloved Maria, you have been an angel wife to me. Your admonitions have been blessed to me also. They parted before the last. He was most anxious that she should be spared the pain of witnessing his last moments, and begged the doctor to take care that she should be removed from the room.

“ When he was dying, Dr Johnstone, his friend and physician, asked him where he wished to be laid, 'In Ireland or in Scotland ?’‘In Ireland, the land of my adoption,' was the immediate answer. I have loved her well and served her faithfully, and lost my life in her service."

Thus he died,” says Larcom, “in the plenitude of mental

power and the maturity of knowledge, beloved in private and esteemed in public life, undimmed by failure and unclouded by reverse."

In the three kingdoms his death was announced as a public loss. Testimony was everywhere borne to his

unwearied industry, high talent, and spotless character. It was the general verdict that he was as good a man in private life, and as efficient a public officer, as ever the world produced. In Ireland his death was bewailed as a national calamity. The simplicity of his devotion to her, before known to many, and now believed by all on the evidence of his dying words, combined Irishmen of all classes and parties in a common lamentation.

Among his friends, some thought first of his beloved and bereaved widow ; others of the beloved and devoted mother, the pride of whose heart had perished.

Each of his old, and, to the last, cherished comrades of Woolwich and the Survey, hastened to offer to his mother the duty of a son, claiming to have loved him as a brother.

Newer friends hastened also to console her by demonstrations of their esteem and affection.

“How severe your affliction must be,” wrote Lord Ebrington, “I can but too well understand, after the opportunities which I derived from our daily and confidential intercourse of observing those noble and endearing qualities of heart and of mind which made me feel for him quite the affection of a brother."*

“If ever a man died for his country," wrote Lord Spencer, “ he did so, and that country ought not, and I believe will not, be sparing in its expressions of gratitude to his memory.

. When I saw him last I deceived myself, he looked so well and appeared so young that I hoped the illness which he had suffered from before had passed away. But I still knew that the labour he was going through was beyond human endurance, and I urged upon him to take the first oppor

* May 4, 1840.

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