John Urquhart, part 21: Final Letter to a Friend
Henry Craik, 1805-1866.
The first symptoms of the illness that would take John’s life were seen in early December 1826. He gradually became more debilitated, eventually becoming unable to write letters. On December 14 he began writing what would be the last letter he wrote to one of his friends. He set the letter aside and did not finish it until December 25, by which time the seriousness of his condition was becoming clear to everyone.
This letter was written to Henry Craik, a close friend from St. Andrews. Like Urquhart, he had come to St. Andrews as a gifted scholar; but also like Urquhart, he had come as an unbeliever. Although Henry was a few years older than John, he was attracted by John’s Christian faith and godly character and they began to spend time together. Of the 1824-1825 school year, Craik wrote, “This session I became acquainted with Urquhart, and my mind and heart were very gradually changed. Want of companions, lowness of spirits, finding relief in such society as Urquhart’s, and specially attracted by the loveliness of his character.” Their friendship deepened with time, and in February 1826, Craik recorded his dread of Urquhart’s coming departure from school— “There is one friend with whom I now enjoy very little time, this is my dear and most valued friend, Urquhart; one with whom I spent a very great portion of my time, last winter; and whose departure from amongst us I have thought of with feelings of the most poignant distress. I shall never cease to admire, and to love him, as one of the most splendid examples of the effects of genuine Christianity; and I am truly thankful to him, still, for the good I derived from his society last year. In a few weeks, at farthest, John Urquhart and I shall part in this world for ever, and I cannot think on this parting, without feelings of very tender emotion; and without asking myself, why I do not cultivate more the society of one to whom my heart is so truly devoted.”
At his last parting from John on May 29, he wrote, “May this friendship, begun amid the casualties of time, find its continuance and highest perfection amidst the stabilities of eternity!”
Tennoch Side, December [14], 1826.
I have to thank you, my dear brother, for two affectionate letters, since I wrote last. Your last was a letter of mourning, and yet it refreshed me much, and comforted me. It was just a day or two after, that I had a letter from our dear friend Tait, breathing the same strain of lamentation for worldliness, and panting after a closer walk with God. We are all one family, my brother, and what wonder that the feelings of our hearts are one, while banished from our home, and wandering amid dangers, fighting with powerful enemies, and surrounded by strangers who know us not, or who know us only to hate us. But let us take courage. ‘The night is far spent, the day is at hand.’ Weeping may endure for a night; but joy will come in the morning. It is not always by light, and faith, and joy, that the Lord answers prayer for spirituality of mind. There is a great truth in that hymn of Newton’s, —
I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith, and love, and every grace;
Might more of his salvation know,
And seek more earnestly his face.
I hoped that in some favoured hour,
At once he’d answer my request;
And by his love’s constraining power,
Subdue my sins and give me rest.
Instead of this, he made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry powers of hell
Assault my soul in every part.
Lord, why is this? I trembling cried;
Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?
’Tis in this way, the Lord replied,
I answer prayer for grace and faith.
These inward trials I employ,
From self and pride to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earthly joy,
That thou mayest seek thy all in me.
Why does God leave us so long in a world of sin? Why were his ancient people forty years in travelling through the wilderness? Why are we exposed to so many temptations? It is because he will not only deliver us, but will show us the horror of that state, from which we have been delivered. And the more we know of our own vileness, shall not our praise be the louder, when we join in that glorious anthem, ‘Unto him that loved us?’
I have been a mourner too. New circumstances have presented new temptations, and the Lord has shown me my utter weakness. Once, I thought my heart could not be viler than I knew it to be; but God has led me, as he did his prophet of old, from one scene of iniquity to another; and when I have thought that now I have seen all, he has opened some secret place within my breast, and showed me ‘greater abominations still.’ Nor am I sure, that I know yet the depths of iniquity that are within me. How easy to pass among men as pious and holy! They compare themselves among themselves. You talk about passing the Rubicon, my dear brother. The river of death is the Rubicon. Not till we have passed it, shall we be completely freed from the world, and its cares. I say this, because I remember feeling, as I think you do. I thought, did I decidedly give up the hope of worldly honours and comforts, by deciding on the missionary life, I should no more be harassed by the cares, or allured by the vanities of earth. But it is not so. To think much of the Saviour is the only way to be made like him. I like much your plan regarding Ireland. I do think your talents, and also those of our friend Brown, are quite of a cast for it. It has been urged much upon me, but you know well I am not the person for such a scene. You ask me concerning my plans. I have no plans at present. If Colonel Moreland goes to Edinburgh in April, I may probably stay a little longer with him. Some information I got to-day, has distressed me a good deal, as it makes me fear that I shall never be fit for a warm climate. I have been drooping and sickly for some weeks. Today, the doctor has come from Glasgow, and pronounces my illness an affection of the liver. He thinks there is no inflammation, and that a course of medicine will remove this attack. I am able to go about, though not very fit for study, and have merely a slight pain, like rheumatism, in my arm and side. Rentoul, Alexander, Duff, and Trail, are in St. Andrew’s. From John Adam, I have not heard since I wrote you. My meeting here is confined to young people, thirteen or fourteen attend. There is no village. They come from scattered cottages. Of course, I do not preach, I talk to them. My meeting with them always refreshes and invigorates me. We go, perhaps, to Dysart, at Christmas. I may, perhaps, have an opportunity of visiting St. Andrew’s.
This is Christmas Day, and it is well for me the family have not moved. John Adam has written me lately; he is well, and goes on with his plan of preaching occasionally.
The other part of this letter was written a considerable time ago [9 days]; but I thought it better, since I had mentioned my illness, not to send it off, till I should see what the issue might be. Decided symptoms of inflammation soon appeared; but I am glad to say, that the Lord has blessed the means employed to removed the disease. At least, we think so at present. You must excuse me for not writing more, as I am excessively weak. I have ate very little, and have been allowed to eat nothing nourishing for some time. Add to this, that I have had a good deal of medicine, and a blister on my side, and you will not wonder that I am much reduced. I can add no more at present, but that I am ever your friend and brother in the strongest bonds.
Craik did not learn of John’s death for over two weeks. Upon receiving this shattering news, he recorded his thoughts in his journal. “This [Sunday] morning received two letters, —one from Mr. Moncrieff announcing the death of John Urquhart, my dearest friend—and the severest loss I have ever experienced, except that of my dearest [sister] Isabella. May God comfort me, for vain is the help of man! Monday I gave to writing home an account of my afflicted state to my dear father and mother. Tuesday was spent in writing to my dear Moncrieff, and on this, Wednesday morning, I can scarcely say that I feel the blow any lighter. About two years ago, when in a state of extreme depression, and incapable of enjoying study or society, John Urquhart, with the tenderest compassion, ministered to my sorrows. Then, I was unreasonably and sinfully attached to him¹; and often, in perfect sincerity, have I felt that I could die for him. Since that period, he has continued ever my most faithful friend. John Urquhart is in his grave; would God I had sat by his bedside, and listened to his last words of tender advice! Now indeed days of darkness have come upon me, and I pray that thus I may be led to fit me for my departure. I wrote him a long letter on Thursday, dispatched it with a light heart, and expected a speedy reply. By the time that letter was written, the noble spirit of my friend was enjoying the communion of the saints. . .It seems as if no earthly provision could make up, in any measure, for the blessing I have lost. David, in the 25th Psalm, well expresses my condition when I first heard the dreadful tidings: “Turn Thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted. The troubles of my heart are enlarged: O bring Thou me out of my distresses. Look upon mine affliction, and my pain; and forgive all my sins.” [¹John Urquhart wrote of similar failures. The sexually charged atmosphere of our day might lead us to think these comments were of an inappropriate nature. But it is clear from other comments that the sin they were speaking of was leaning too much on human friendships for the hope and encouragement they should have looked for in Christ.]
In time, God did bring other friends into Henry’s life to ease the pain of his loss. In 1829, two years after John’s death, Craik met another man his age and of a similar academic background. His name was George Müller, and for 36 years these men would remain close friends and fellow workers in the harvest fields. Following Craik’s own death in 1866, Müller wrote, “we remained labouring in the Word in the same locality in Devonshire for about two years and three months; and then, in a very marked way, were both led, at the same time, to Bristol, where we have laboured together for more than thirty-three years.” Who knows how different Müller’s ministry would have been without the friendship of Craik? Yet Craik’s path of godliness began through the life of John Urquhart. May we all aspire to a similar life of godliness and devotion. We cannot know how far into the future our little lives may reach.
