A proof of the danger of not attending to trifles: A feeble attempt to characterise a man of uncommon virtue: The dying anxieties of Mr. Evelyn

The melancholy particulars of this strange tragedy were that, three days before, Mr. Evelyn, being then in perfect health, had been dissecting a limb in a high state of putrescence. During the operation, the instrument had slipped, and made what he considered only as a scratch of the skin; and so slight that he did not immediately deem it worthy of notice: though, when he had ended, he felt a tingling; and then thought it prudent to wash with vinegar, and bind it up to keep out the air.

He was so busily engaged, during the day, that he paid no more attention to it; though he once or twice felt a throbbing that was unusual. Being fatigued, and finding his spirits rather agitated, he took a gentle opiate at going to rest: but was waked in the middle of the night, by symptoms of a very alarming kind. The morbid humour that was introduced into the system, small as it probably was in quantity, was so active that Mr. Evelyn was seized with a violent inflammatory fever: so that he was delirious when he woke, and died in less than eight and forty hours after he received this slight wound.

Such is the uncertain fate of man, in this state of ignorance. To such sudden accidents of sickness and death are the good and the bad, the foolish and the wise, continually subject; and such at present is the frail tenure of life that the man in whose hall we feasted on Monday, or the blooming beauty with whom we sung and danced, ere the week passes away, are descended to the grave.

What tribute can friendship or affection pay, to the memory of a man like this? There is only one that is worthy of his virtues; and that is to record them: that, he being gone, his example may inspire the benevolence he practised; and teach others to communicate the blessings he conferred.

Oh that I had the power to pourtray those virtues in all their lustre! Ages unborn would then rejoice, that such a man had lived; and feel the benefits he would have bestowed. But it is a task that cannot be accomplished in a few pages. His life was a vast volume of the best of actions, which originated in the best of principles. Peace, love, and reverence, be with his memory.

For my own part, if, in addition to that uncommon public worth which he possessed, and that noble scale of morality by which he regulated his life, the personal kindness which he heaped on me be remembered, I must have less of affection than savage brutality, did no portion of his spirit inspire me while I speak of these events.

Nor did his friendship end while understanding had the least remaining power. His last act of benevolence was a strenuous but incoherent effort to prevent the mischief which, disturbed as his functions were, he still had recollection enough to apprehend would fall on me.

The reader is informed of the mortgage I gave Mr. Evelyn, when I received not merely a qualification but the possession of an estate; and I imagine he will not think I was too scrupulously careful, to guard and prove the honesty of my intentions, when I further tell him that, for the sums of money which Mr. Evelyn advanced, I insisted on giving my promissory notes for repayment. I was pertinacious, and would accept such favours on no other terms.

This mortgage and these notes were lying in the possession of Mr. Evelyn, at the time of his death. He had apprehended no danger, till the fever and the delirium seized him: at the beginning of which he called his servant, Matthew (I tell the story as the poor fellow told it to me), and, giving him a key, bade him go down to his bureau, and search among his papers for a parchment and some notes, that were tied together with red tape.

Having uttered this, he began to talk in a wild and wandering manner; of fetters, and prisons; and asked Matthew if he knew why such places were built? 'So make haste, Matthew,' said he, 'and burn the parchment, and burn the notes, and burn the bureau. After which, you know, all will be safe, Matthew; and they can never harm Mr. Trevor. You love Mr. Trevor, Matthew: do not you?'

His recollection then seemed to return; and he asked, 'Of what have I been talking? Go, Matthew; seek the parchment and the notes: tied with red tape. Observe: there is no other parchment tied with red tape. Bring them to me directly.'

Matthew had taken the key; but just as he was going the Doctor, who had been sent for, arrived.

Matthew went, however, as he was directed; and, applying the key to the lock, found it was a wrong one.

The Doctor, alarmed for the state in which he saw Mr. Evelyn, immediately wrote a prescription, and rang for the servant to run and have it prepared at the shop of the next apothecary. Matthew answered the bell; and Mr. Evelyn seeing him eagerly demanded—'Where is the parchment? Have you brought me the parchment? Why do not you bring me the parchment?' 'For,' said Matthew, 'I held out the key; and he saw I had nothing else in my hands.'

The Doctor asked Matthew what parchment his master wanted? And Matthew replied, he could not tell: except that his master said it was in the bureau, and tied with red tape. 'Why do not you bring it?' said Mr. Evelyn. Then turning to the Doctor, added—'It is a bundle of misery; and you know, sir, we ought to drive all misery from the face of the earth. I cannot tell how it came in my possession. Why do you not go and bring it me, Matthew? And pray, sir, do you see it destroyed. Promise me that; I beg you will! Because Mr. Trevor is in the country. I am afraid elections are but bad things. What, sir, is your opinion? For I think I shall die; and he will then have no friend on earth to secure him the poll.'

'Seeing my poor master was so disturbed in his mind,' said Matthew, 'the doctor bid me run as fast as I could for the stuff he had ordered: which I did. But I was obliged to wait till it was made up; and when I come back my poor dear master was more distracting light-headed than ever. But still he kept raving about the parchment; and his cousin, Sir Barnard; and you, Mr. Trevor: all which the Doctor said we must not heed, because he did not know what he said. Though, for all that, I could not but mightily fear there was something hung heavy on his mind: for, as long as ever he could be heard to speak, he kept calling every now and then for the parchment. And after that, when he lay heaving for breath and rattling in the throat and nobody could tell a word that he said, he kept moving his lips just in the same manner as when he could make himself heard. I do believe he was calling for it almost as the breath left his body. And I cannot but say that I wish I had found it, and brought it to him; for the ease and quiet of his soul.'