Project Canterbury
The Life of Ambrose Bonwicke
by his Father.Cambridge: Deighton, Bell, and Co. 1870.
[pp 92-112]
Both Good-Friday and Easter-Eve he fasted till the evening, and on the latter of these days he rose about half an hour after five, tho’, as we have observed, he had not slept the preceding night. He again examined his whole life past, and that he might do it the more exactly, he made use of the catalogue of sins at the end of his Nelson, as well as that in his Officium Eucharisticum.
And from this time, to the day of his death inclusive, I find the accounts of his sacramental examinations much larger, and more exact than formerly.
Understanding his mother was to be in London in the Easter week, he writ to her thither on Easter-Monday; and this being his last letter to her, I shall give you part of it, that you may see how he took his leave of her. In the first place he hopes, before she leaves the city, she will trouble her self so far as to let him know how all dear relations do, particularly how his father has born up against the remaining part of the winter since he left him. And then after a pretty deal of business, in which he was always very exact, towards the conclusion he proceeds thus:
"My business generally leading me to write to my father, but having now an opportunity to do it to your self, I should seem unmindful of those particular and affectionate kindnesses you have been all along pleased to shew me, more especially when I was last with you; did I not return you my hearty thanks for them. Tho’ at present I have no great prospect of it, yet I trust God will some time or other so bless with success my earnest endeavours of making my self fit for the support and comfort of my dear parents, that I may make returns of gratitude in my actions, rather than my words. But however he pleases to order that, be assured, madam, I shall never want the will to do it so long as any sense of duty remains in me, which, as it has had so many additional helps of kindnesses from you to fix it in my breast, will (I have great reason to hope) never be rooted out thence."
The last letter he writ to his father was the following one.
St. John’s Cambr.
May 2, 1714.HON. SIR,
Upon seeing the date of this you’ll be apt to think something more than ordinary has happened, I having not used to write on a Sunday. The occasion of it is this. On Friday was sevennight, just as I was lain down in bed, before I had put out my candle, a tickling cough seized me, which causing me to spit, I was surprized to find in it blood; so taking up my pot, I continued spitting in that manner and coughing, by reason of the sharpness of the taste of the blood, for a little time; designing to ask Mr. Roper’s advice the first opportunity, which happened not to be till Tuesday last, when I was taken with my coughing and spitting blood again, much more than the first time, occasioned, I believe, by winding up the clock a little eagerly.
Giving Mr. R an account of what happened, (and that tho’ some overstraining my self might cause this, yet no such could be the occasion of my first seizure, I being then perfectly easy, and having been sitting an hour or two in my study, and going to bed too in good time) he advised me if I was taken thus again to be let blood, and to take some styptic electuary, because he could not easily tell whether it proceeded from my lungs, or fell down from my head hither, which is the apothecary’s opinion, and to avoid straining my self on any account.
Accordingly I have since got a boy to wind up the clock for me. But on Wednesday night, with only laughing heartily and suddenly, my cough and spitting came on me again, but not so much as the night before. The next day was not thought proper to be blooded in, because of my exercise in the schools, nor Friday last, because twas very wet and cold. That night foolishly going to help the boy in the easiest part of winding the clock, I was, in doing it, again taken with my cough, &c. tho’ but a little. But the same night, as soon as ever I had laid my self down in bed, which was in good time, and without any emotion of hurry, having been quietly half an hour before in my study, I was seized worse than ever before, coughing and bringing up for near half an hour, a great quantity of thick fresh blood. Upon which I resolved next day to keep up and be blooded, as I accordingly was by Mr. Roper’s advice; tho’ the day was not so good as might have been wished, but I kept a fire in my chamber, and have stayed within ever since; tho’ I thank God I’m now so well, that I believe I shall, with Mr. R.’s leave, go to chapel this evening.
I did not faint in the least at bleeding, tho’ I was somewhat afraid of it before I felt it. Mr. R. tells me my blood is too good, yet bids me have a care of eating salt meats, or drinking strong drinks; and by my being subject to bleed at the nose, as my brother also is, he is apt to believe we have too much blood in our vessels, which he thinks has occasioned my illness. I beg you and my mother not to be concerned, for my good friend takes as much care of me as possibly can be: he was twice with me yesterday; he tells me I should take ground-ivy-tea, and plantane, and other styptic herbs he mentioned, of which I shall have an electuary from the apothecary to take two of three times a day, and to go abroad with, which shall stanch the blood, and heal any thing that may be out of order. I hope I shall have no more returns of my spitting blood; if I have in any considerable degree, you shall be sure to hear. Mr. Roper says I must then be blooded again, and take the advice of a doctor.
"P.S. About 4. I’ve been at church, and am come down now into public again by Mr. Roper’s advice, who was with me after dinner. He bid me be sure not to fright you, because he hoped all was very well: but he said I must avoid all straining my self and taking cold, which Doctor Wagstaff had told him after bleeding was of ill consequence, tho’ little regarded. Our letters are not yet come in from London, but if I receive any this post, you may expect to have it answered, and a farther account of my health the latter end of this, or the beginning of next week.
Upon receipt of this, his father concluded him in a very dangerous condition, and hastened away his brother to him, with orders, that, if he were able to bear the journey, he should come home, where during a lingring sickness (as he thought it would prove) he might find that tender care and attendance which his constant duty and affection had so well deserved. His brother accordingly began his journey on Ascension-Day, presuming the charity of it would excuse his traveling on so great a festival. He had promised to write from Cambridge the very next post; but his father was very much suprized to receive a letter, which, by the superscription, appeared to be neither his, nor his brother’s, and upon opening found it thus.
REV. SIR,
I am extremely concerned that I am obliged to acquaint you with the most afflicting news of a very great loss. It has pleased God to take to himself one of the best youths that I ever knew in this college, and for whom every body here had the greatest value. Mr. Roper will write to you next post, and give you the particulars of the manner of his death: in the meantime I know I need not pray you to bear this loss with a suitable resignation; nor after the character I have mentioned, is it necessary to say it is your son that we have lost. Your younger son is very well recover’d of the great surprise he was in on his first hearing the sad news. Every thing in relation to a decent funeral shall be taken care of by, Sir,
Your most afflicted
Friend and Servant,CHR. ANSTEY.
May 9, 1714
The very next post came the following letter from his brother.
St. John’s, May 11.
A Ground-Chamber.HON. Sir,
I must intreat you to cease your grief for my dear brother’s untimely, yet happy departure out of this world; for he is now (in the judgment of all that knew him) much happier than we; and when you hear the circumstances which preceded it, you’ll, I’m confident, agree with me tin that phrase I used just now of a happy departure. This therefore that follows, you may depend upon as certain, for indeed I cannot affirm any thing of my self, who did but set out from home the morning next to that fatal night.
He was in company with Sir Newton that night, till about eight o’ th’ clock, and then retired, telling him he had business at home, (which was to prepare himself for the blessed sacrament next morning, this being Ascension-Eve) accordingly having examined himself (as was found by a paper of his own writing) and pray’d for devotion in celebrating those mysteries (as may be seen by the books that were found open on his desk) it pleased Almighty God then and there to take him to himself, and that he should die such a death, as he had (I doubt not) often desired, in that prayer of Doctor Wichcot, which I wrote for him into his Nelson; when he was neither unprepared, nor his accounts unready, when he was in a perfect renunciation of the guise of this mad and sinful world, and not being tormented by a lingering sickness; for in all probability he was taken away in an instant, having not made the least noise, not even so much as to be heard by his good neighbour Mr. Roper. The time he died, happy for him, unhappy for all that knew him, is supposed to be about nine or ten a clock on Wednesday night.
His body was interred in the chancel of Allhallows church on Friday night, and his funeral very decently performed the Sunday night following. There was within the college walls a very great attendance of fellows and scholars, yea, and fellow-commoners too (who are generally negligent at these times) but a much greater multitude expected the bier at the gates. For having the week before performed public exercise in the schools with great applause, his death was more universally taken notice of, and sadly lamented too, as may be seen by the ingenious elegies which people so freely made on this occasion; some of which, I hope, will e’er long be sent you. The master, when I was with him yesterday to write my rediit, told me, he hoped I should continue in health, tho’ he could not but own the great loss befallen both my self and the college; so enquiring after your health, dismissed me. After which I went to Mr. Baker, who desired me to give his service to you, and tell you that he joined in bewailing the loss of such an ornament to the college. Whither (tho’ I was in the town on Friday in the afternoon) I came not before Saturday, but no nearer the chamber than Mr. Roper’s door, and can’t find in my heart to go any higher.
"I have, indeed, no relish for the college, and should not abide it, were it not for some good friends, whom I am very much obliged to. But after six weeks I shall have kept my term, and then, I hope, to see you again, and take a little school-burden off from you, which, I am sure, must lie heavy, when such a sad addition comes to it; and whatever alterations I find in my self, I am pretty sure they are in no less degree at home on such an occasion. Pray, sir, give my duty to my mother.
Your obedient Son,
Philip Bonwicke."P.S. Mr. Roper desired me to give his service to you, and beg your pardon for not writing according to promise, for he is in no condition to do it. On Wednesday night he received an account of the death of Doctor Turner, president of Corpus Christi Oxon. his best friend in the world; and on Thursday had the shock of finding my dear brother’s dead body in his study. He desires me also to tell you, that he thinks his death proceeded from an extravasation of blood upon his lungs, occasioned from winding up the clock that day, which he had not done for a week before."
There can be added to this pathetic account of his death. It must only be observed, that next day being St. John Port. Lat. one of their foundation days, (as they call it) as well as Holy Thursday, his death was not so soon discovered as otherwise it might have been. He was then alone, his brother and his other chamber-fellow being in the country; and tho’ he was asked after by several, because miss’d at the public communion that day, where all were obliged to be present; yet it passed off without further enquiry till after evening prayer, when his dear friend (with whom he had last conversed, and very cheerfully, as he said, tho’ he complained his head was out of order) ask’d the bedmaker whether he lay at home that night, and she answering no, he, knowing his constant regularity in that and all other particulars, bid her go and tell Mr. Roper, whose mind immediately misgave him; and going up and forcing open the study door, his candle by him unlighted (as was supposed) that he might be the more retired and undistured; his Officium Eucharisticum open before him, with a paper in it, containing the abstract of that week, from Sunday morning to the end of that day, Wednesday; his Nelson, Common-Prayer-Book, and others lying by it. Thus he, whose lamp was always burning, had by the good providence of God now trimmed it, ready for the approach of the Bridegroom; and gave up his soul to his blessed Redeemer in that very place, where he had often before offered it up in prayer. This was an euqanasia, far beyond what the poor heathen emperor could wish for himself and his friends, being heightened by a hope full of immortality.
By his constant regular reading of Nelson, he was at this time more especially prepared for his dissolution. For after he had finished his resolutions on Easter-Eve, the discourses and prayers for that day are all preparatory for death; and one of them is that very prayer of Doctor Wichcot’s his brother mentions. On Easter-Day, and its two attendant festivals, he was directed by that good book to mediatte on Christ’s resurrection and his own, and the immortality of the soul; to set his affections on things above; to prefer the interest of his soul before all the advantages of this life; to prepare his body by purity and sobriety for that honour and happiness it is designed for at the resurrection; and was furnished with suitable prayers. On St. Philip and St. James he was instructed in the duty of self-denial, and encouraged to part with life and all earthly comforts, and rather die and suffer the greatest hardships, than out of a fondness to this world and the enjoyments of it to do any thing unbecoming the religion of Jesus Christ.
The discourse on the Rogation days is wholly upon prayer, teaching us what we ought to pray for; upon what conditions God has promised to hear our prayers; in what manner we ought to pray; what prayers are most acceptable to God, and most necessary for us; what are the great advantages of the frequent and devout exercise of this duty; as that it is the best method to get the mastery of our evil inclinations, and to overcome our vicious habits: it preserves a lively sense of our duty upon our minds, and fortifies us against those temptations that continually assault us: it raises our souls above this world by making spiritual objects familiar to them, and supports us under the calamities and crosses of this life, by sanctifying such afflictions: it leads us gradually to the perfection of Christian piety, and preserves that union between our souls and God, in which our spiritual life consists. Immediately after reading this and the meditation for the day in his Officium Eucharisticum, he betook himself to this devout exercise, and the examination of himself preparatory to the holy communion. After which he went to evening-prayer in the chapel, where he was called upon in the voice of the church, to ascend in heart and mind after his blessed Lord. In obedience to which call about eight o’ th’ clock, according to his brother’s letter, and his own minutes, he betook himself again to examination and penitence; and being acted by a nobler principle than the fear of death, prepared himself, in the best manner it was possible, for death, and the actual ascent to the blessed Jesus, which immediately followed.
He had left papers in three several places of his Nelson, which shewed what parts he had last made use of;’ the first was at the prayers for Trinity-Sunday, the second in the preparation for death on Easter-Eve, and the third in the examination of himself on all Fridays in the year. That he had finished his sacramental preparation according to the method of the Officium Eucharisticum, may be gathered from his having consecrated, (as it appeared he had) and set apart what he designed for the offertory the next day; which is one of the last things to be done according to that book, that charity may crown the devotions of the day. And in such charities, out of his little stock, he had expended in three years and about eight months, the whole time from his admission at St. John’s to his death, above four pounds. Nor did his charity exert it self only in almsgiving, but in all the other branches of it, particularly in that of hoping the best, and judging the best of others. Of which, among other instances that might be given, take this of July 7, 1713. which being a state holy-day, he absented himself from the public prayers, but his brother was present at ’em. However, for this he condemned him not, but thus charitably express’d himself in a letter to his father that day: "I dare say my brother would not have gone, had he thought he could not lawfully." He shewed his great charity for souls, in the care he took to instruct some of the meanest college servants in the principles of religion and piety, and helping them to good books for that purpose; a charity which exceeds all corporal ones, as much as the soul is superior to the body.
I am not able to give you any better account of his studies for the three months of this year that he was in college, than I gave you for the eight months of the former year; but this I am sure of, that he continued the same early riser, that he had been all along, to the last day of his life; and the Sunday before his death, when he was obliged to keep in on account of his illness, and having been let blood the day before, I find him rising at half an hour after six, tho’ sick at that very time, and immediately betaking himself to his prayers. And indeed it is wonderful to consider, that he who had such an infirm body, so often ailing, would not indulge in that ease, which any one but himself would have judged necessary.
He went on in this time in reading Echard’s Roman History; Doctor Hammond on the New Testament, whom by this time he had gone almost quite through; Terence, Tully, and Hebrew Psalms. He read also Fonteneli’s Plurality of Worlds, Appian’s Roman History in Greek, Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Polity (as appears by the abstract he made out of each) and Whiston’s Astronomy. He made one Greek theme, one copy of Latin verses, two theses, one Latin and one Greek declamation; besides the public exercises at the school, which his brother in his letter took notice of.
And now if any one shall compare the rules given by Doctor Barecroft, in his advice to a son in the university, with the practice of this pious youth, he will find it to come up to ’em in almost all the particulars; tho’ it is a question whether he had ever read that advice, it being not among his books, nor any where taken notice of in his minutes. His brother sent his father several of those copies of verses which were made on his death, one of which I shall transcribe.
On the Death of my pious Friend and Schoolfellow, Ambrose Bonwicke.
WITH honest tears to praise the virtuous dead
Is the best office men to men have paid.
So the great patterns of past ages slept,
And so our great forefathers nobly wept.
The good, the young, the lovely and the great,
Have always by the muse been laid in state,
And in immortal verse surviv’d their fate.
The list’ning crowds with glorious heat were fir’d,
And strove to be what they so much admir’d
Wing’d by the muse, whene’er the hero dies,
He takes possession of his native skies,
The pious monarch who adorn’d his throne,
And made the cares of all mankind his own,
The purple he deserv’d must ever have;
His fame, his worth, his honour know no grave.
If but a swain, a sighing Daphnis dies,
The murm’ring rivers to new sorrows rise:
The mourning spreads thro’ all the echoing hills,
And Rhodope complains in weeping rills;
The frozen Hebrus bursts with heaving sighs,
And pours new streams of pity from his eyes;
The morning lowers and the sun looks pale,
The flowers hang their heads, and birds bewail.
And shall no tears, no tributary verse,
In lonely strains attend our present hearse?
Must all be swallow'd in the gulf of death,
And shall his fame fly from us with his breath?
Will no kind muse revive the sinking youth,
Adorn'd with letters, constancy and truth;
Dress'd in the piety of silver hairs,
Finish'd in virtue, tho' a youth in years;
Who dy'd in life's gay prime and spring of joy,
Who in the prime of life was fit to die?
Ah no—my friend, a thousand ties invite,
Worth, education, friendship all unite,
And say it is my duty now to write.
Condemn my verses, but applaud my love,
Virtue like yours 'tis virtue to approve.
Fain to thy merit would my sorrow raise
A strong, a well built monument of praise:
Such soft complainings as sweet Cowley sung,
When his sad harp to Harvey's Dame he strung;
Harvey, whom all the fields of Cambridge knew,
On ev'ry tree the sacred friendship grew,
Till the dull morn drave on th'unwilling light,
As conscious what was done that dismal night.
Pangs sharp as his, fair youth, for thee I feel,
More beautiful his verse, not more his zeal.
Forgive my want of power to commend,
Unlike the poet, tho' alike the friend.
Ah! hapless youth! by what mistake of fate,
The sun which rose so bright, so soon should set?
Why wast thou torn from nature's happiest bloom,
From life's fair dawning hurry'd to the tomb?
Thy rising virtues were with pleasure seen,
And nature shew'd us what thou might'st have been:
But while we gaz'd, and lov'd the heav'nly boy,
The grasp of death chill'd thee and all our joy.
So the fair product of the flow'ry bed,
Which rais'd above the rest its painted head,
The garden's glory, and its waster's pride,
Bedeck'd with beauteous lights on ev'ry side;
Struck by a sudden blast dissever'd lies,
And all its colour, all its beauty dies.
But ah! we think amiss, and wrong his fame,
His race was shorter, but his prize the same.
We talk of deaths and dark untimely graves,
And blame the happy providence which saves.
We dress the pious youth in our own fears,
And count the age of saints by common years.
While he serenely happy sits above,
Smiles at our sorrows, and forgives our love.
What is long life? What all the shine of courts?
What is the world, its business or its sports?
The seat of danger, error and mistake,
Where we adore and fear the things we make,
He view'd the gilded toys with other eyes,
Who while on earth convers'd above the skies.
He reach'd the goal, e’er others had begun,
And rested sooner, who had faster run.
Tell not his days, his age of virtues tell;
He liv'd a length of time, who liv'd so well.
Hail! happy youth! discharg'd from flesh and blood,
And from the power of not being good.
Hereafter when we wash with tears thy urn,
'Tis not for thee, but for our selves we mourn.LAUR. JACKSON, A.B.
There was a monument erected for him in the chancel of Allhallows, near the place of his burial, with the following inscription made by the author of the foregoing verses.
Respice paululum,
Si sincere fides, si candida veritas,
Si flos iuventae redolens virtutem
Ad quod respicias habet:His iacet quod post se reliquit
Impatiens terrae AMBROSIUS BONWICKE,
Egregius multi nominis iuvenis,
Naioris multo postea futurus.
Qui perbreve vitae emensus stadium,
Magnum virtutis circulum feliciter complevit;
Et satis vixit.
Recepit pia sanctis Iohannis aedes,
Nec magis piam alluit Camus aedem,
Castumq; formavit iuvenem sinuq’ fovit,
Nec magis castum fovit unquam iuvenem,
Educens bonam in frugem semina,
Quae ludus olim iecerat literarius,
Caelestis irrigaverat favor,
Sincero ipse excoluerat pectore.Obiit Maii 5to 1714, aetatis suae 23.
PHILIPPUS BONWICKE
Eiusdem Aedis Alumnus fratrem charissimum ut Pietate, its et Morte quam proxime secutus est. Ob enim 14. Mar. eiusdem Anni, Aetat. suae 18.
This small addition was made to the inscription upon the death of his brother, who died of the small pox, and was buried close by him; by whose death this account has lost much of its perfection and beauty. But such as it is it may be depended upon as faithful, having been chiefly made up out of his letters which his father had preserved, and those other private papers, which were never designed to see the light, but by his sudden death had the good fortune to outlive him.
If now upon the reading of this it should please God to move the heart of any young person to remember his Creator in the days of his youth, and to imitate the example here set before him; let him immediately fall down on his knees, and give him thanks, that by his good providence he hath put this little book into his hand, and his grace into his heart, to make a right use of it; and beg the continuance of that grace, that his good intentions prove not abortive. To which purpose it may be useful to take this caution along with him, viz. that he aim not the equalling of it in every particular at first, but content himself with a firm resolution of abandoning all known sin, and then proceed to those degrees of piety, mortification and self-denial, he here meets with, as he finds he is able, and that he try the strength of his shoulders before he too much increases the burthen. So shall there be joy in the presence of the angels of God, and of the spirit of this young man, among those of other just men made perfect, and some addition even to the happiness of heaven. Which God of his infinite mercy grant for the merits of Christ Jesus our Saviour, the only perfect example, to whom with the Holy Spirit, three Persons, and one glorious Lord God, be given all honour, praise and thanksgiving, by all angels, all men, all creatures, for ever and for ever. Amen. Amen.
FINIS.