This affecting letter was written after the loss of his son-in-law and two sons by drowning.—Editor.
REISQILL, September, 1822. My Dear Friend, I am sure you have heard how the Lord hath been pleased to write bitter things to me upon the 11th day of September, a day of grief, and sorrow to me indeed, but the Lord Himself hath done it. Many a bitter cup have I got since 24 years but this is Marah water indeed. I do not say that a sorer stroke could not be; no, no. God forbid. However, I may say that it has reached my marrow. It is long since my lot was in the 88th Psalm, both outwardly and inwardly, and this dispensation brought me forward to the last three verses. I may say “Men’s hopes are vain, their sorrows certain, and their joy feigned, our wine mixed with water, our honey with gall, our sugar with wormwood, and our roses with prickles.” Well might I call this world a sea of glass for the troubles, and the brittleness of it. Trivial flowers surrounded with many thorns, this world is nothing at all, but Christ is all and all; and He has supported me a poor barren branch in His own vineyard. Suppose though He cast me down with one hand, He upholds me with the other. Ever blessed be His name for it. My wound is deep, but His wounds are sweet. But, oh! my withered hand, and unbelieving heart. I am sure my stroke is heavy, but it might be heavier if He were to mark iniquity. If the loving and sweet Branch Jesus were put in my Marah water, there would be no outcasts (Disputes,) betwixt us, and I would make Him very welcome to the two sweet flowers He hath plucked out of my breast and they were that to me in my weak and decayed frame of body. I may call their death a Benoni to me, but I am clear to call it a Benjamin to them. Suppose though my son Robert is tossed in the womb of the raging sea I believe his soul is at its eternal rest, and endless happiness. I never saw three pleasanter young plants, than Robert Gair, Donald Bain, and Donald Ferguson or my lawful and dear son from his birth. To all he was mild and affectionate in his sweet disposition, and to me, the poor man now, is the burden heavy that he bore for me since he was twelve years of age. He had care of the family.
I am not able to add more, my son Donald Bain, was to me beyond what I can express in words, and Donald Ferguson. They were lovely in their life, united in mutual love, on land, and embraced in one another’s arms till the raging waves made a separation. To me their love was beyond the love of women. Pray you for the poor young widow, my daughter, I brought her to my house with the child. My poor wife is wonderfully supported, but, oh! how flat and low this has brought her. Remember me to my friends at G. without exception.
Dear Brother I got your breath near and sweet to me since my last trial came upon me. Will you write me when you can. You’ll find me in 109th Psalm, 22-24 verses. Accept of this confused mite presented to you from a poor and despised friend, Alexander Gair.