A VILLAGE FUNERAL.
Death is a solemn subject of meditation; and it is one which presents stronger claims on our attention than any other, because we all must die. If to die were a mere cessation of being; if, when the mind ceases to think, and the passions cease to glow; if, when the active and the passive virtues cease to display their moral beauty and vigour, and when the mantle of mortality falls from off us, we live only in the recollection of surviving friends, we should forbear passing a heavy censure on the general indifference which is manifested towards death and dying. But we live, when dying; we outlive death, and live for ever. Yes, life and immortality are brought to light by the volume of inspiration. There we read that "the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear His voice, and shall come forth, they that have done good unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil unto the resurrection of damnation."
Death spares neither age nor rank, talent nor piety. The king of terrors sways the sceptre of absolute authority over all the living; none can elude his grasp, nor resist his power. What a scene is presented where he has achieved a conquest! The sparkling eye become dim, the instructive lips sealed in perpetual silence; the ear deaf alike to the voice of friendship and the song of mirth; and the tabernacle of bliss changed into the house of mourning. The preparations necessary for the interment keep the mind in a state of constant agitation; but when these are all adjusted, and the ministers of death enter to bear away the dear departed to the distant tomb, then the sobs, and tears, and groans of agonized survivors, proclaim the greatness of the irreparable desolation.
It was on a still summer evening, as we sat conversing together on the immortality of the soul, and on the blessedness of the righteous in the heavenly world, that we received intelligence of the approaching dissolution of Mrs. Allen. Mrs. Stevens expressed a desire to see her once more before her decease; and having accepted my offer to accompany her, we hastened to her lonely dwelling.
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
Vol. i. page 187.
I have often observed, in my intercourse with society, that the benevolent affections are not cherished exclusively by any class of its members, but glow in the breasts of all; yet they are usually most delicate when refined by the hallowed fire of devotional feeling. On some occasions we see in humble life the tributary tear paid to departed worth, even where religion has not instilled her sweetest influences; yet, in general, a degree of insensibility is manifested which may well excite astonishment. But we felt, on entering this cottage, that we were indeed in the house of mourning. The husband, just returned from his hard day's labour, sat in the window-seat, his mug of ale, and bread and cheese, untouched on the table beside him; his hand spanned his forehead, concealing his eyes, and his little boy stood near him, pensive and sad. No voice spoke, no noise was heard, nor did our entrance disturb the mourner in his musings. We felt a momentary tremor, under an apprehension that death had already borne off his captive.
At length Mrs. Stevens said, "Well, Robert, is your wife still in the body, or in glory?"
He started up, and, as the tear fell on his sun-burnt face, replied, "She is still with us; but she will soon be gone. She has been discoursing about you, Ma'am, all day; and she will be very glad to see you again before she enters into the joy of her Lord."
We went up stairs, and it was evident, from the expression of Mrs. Allen's countenance, that our visit gave her great delight. She sat up in bed, supported by pillows; her face glowed with a hectic flush, her eyes shone with radiant brightness, her voice was clear, though not strong, and her mind discovered its usual cheerfulness and vigour.
"Here I am, hourly expecting a change. Disease has nearly consumed my body; but as my outward man perisheth, blessed be God my inward man is renewed day by day. I have passed through deep waters since I saw you, but they have not been permitted to overflow me; for when the enemy came in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord lifted up a standard against him. The contest is nearly over, the prize of my high calling is in view, and Jesus, my beloved Saviour, will soon, very soon, present me faultless before the presence of the Divine glory with exceeding joy."
"I am happy," said Mrs. Stevens, "to find you in such a calm ecstasy in anticipation of the coming crisis. You have borne a living testimony to the truth of religion, and now you can bear a dying testimony to its excellence."
"My living testimony has been but feeble; it has not been so decided as it ought to have been; I dare not think of it but with regret and self-loathing. I have been an unprofitable servant, but I look for redemption and for acceptance to Jesus the Mediator, whose blood cleanseth from all sin."
"But it must give you some degree of satisfaction to look back and see the fruits of your religion, though the fruit may not have been so rich nor so fine as you could wish."
"It gives me pleasure to know that I have been kept from falling, and that I shall soon be permitted to bow down in the presence of my Lord, and offer to Him some expression of my ardent gratitude for his great goodness to me; but I can derive no satisfaction from a review of my own conduct. I am a sinner saved by grace."
"You are now," I observed, "near the end of your course, and I suppose you would not willingly recommence your pilgrimage on earth."
"I would, Sir, cheerfully, if my Lord were to command me, but not otherwise. I long to be with him. To give up my dear husband and child occasioned a hard struggle, but I have been enabled to do it; and now I am going home, and my Father is waiting to receive me."
We committed her departing spirit to the Lord Jesus, and prayed for her husband and her child; then returned to Fairmount, where the news of her decease reached us within the space of an hour. After we left she had spoken but seldom, lying with her eyes closed, but, from the occasional motion of her lips, it was evident that she was much engaged in prayer. At length she said, "I feel a change which I cannot describe—is this death?—how easy it is! The king of terrors is transformed into an angel of deliverance. I shall soon see the King, the Lord of hosts in his beauty. I am entering the valley, but there is no darkness. I see the shadow of death, but feel no sting." After a short pause, during which her spirit seemed to be gathering up its strength for the final departure, she embraced her husband and her child for the last time; and, having solemnly commended them to God, she reclined her head on the pillow, and expired. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints, and their decease is often precious in the sight of men. Yes, their composure when bidding farewell to their endeared relatives, and their joyful anticipations when in the act of passing into the unseen world, often produce such a powerful effect on the spectators of their exit, that many who contemn their religious principles, have retired from the solemn scene, saying, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his."
Mrs. Allen's long affliction had so impoverished her husband, that he was not able to meet the expenses of her funeral; but such was the esteem in which her character was held, that a subscription for the purpose was immediately raised. I had often seen the city funeral, where the simplicity of nature is sacrificed to pompous show. The mourning coaches, the hearse decorated with plumes, and drawn by horses clothed in black, the hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief—these may, by their sombrous appearance, throw a momentary gloom over the spirits, but rarely, if ever, produce a deep moral impression on the heart. I had now to witness, in a village funeral, a very different scene.
The ancient custom of burying the dead in the evening, which still lingers in some parts of the country, prevailed in this village. I left Fairmount, in company with Mr. Stevens and Mr. Lewellin, about five o'clock, the eighth day after her decease; and we were both astonished and pleased by seeing Farmer Pickford on the road before us. When we came up with him I saluted him.
"What, Farmer, are you going to the funeral?"
"Yes, Sir; my mistress wished it, as she mainly liked Mrs. Allen; and I felt a bit inclined to pay a little respect to her memory, because I once made sport of her religion; but I am now satisfied that it is of the right sort."
"It is so. It gives comfort on a bed of sickness and pain, and it fits a person to die well—to die with a full expectation of going to heaven; that is, of going home."
"It's a main good thing, and no mistake, when we are turned out of one home, to have another to go to."
"And that other home heaven, which I hope, Farmer, will be your home at last and for ever."
"The Lord grant that it may be so. I often pray a bit about it; but my prayers are but poor prayers, worse luck. I can't pray like you."
"You can pray, like the publican, 'God be merciful to me a sinner.'"
"Ay, that's the prayer for me. I can pray that prayer, and feel it too."
Almost immediately after we had reached the cottage, a neat oak coffin, bearing the name and age of the deceased, was brought out, and placed on two stools in the centre walk of the garden. A band of singers from the church choir took the lead in the procession, then the bearers of the coffin, two and two, a lad walking on each side with a stool, to afford an occasional resting; then the chief mourners—the widowed husband and his little boy; some relatives, and a few poor friends, walked behind; and many of the villagers attended as spectators. As the bier entered the vale that divides the two parishes, the singers sang the following hymn:—
"Hear what the voice from heaven proclaims
For all the pious dead;
Sweet is the savour of their names,
And soft their sleeping bed.
"They die in Jesus, and are bless'd;
How still their slumbers are!
From suff'rings and from sins releas'd,
And freed from ev'ry snare.
"Far from this world of toil and strife,
They're present with the Lord;
The labours of their mortal life
End in a large reward."
The effect was solemn and impressive. As soon as the hymn was sung, the bier stood still, and the bearers rested; when the thrush and the yellow hammer, roused by the music, poured forth their melodious notes, as though anxious to prolong the song. The number of spectators increased as we advanced; all were serious, some wept; and when we turned into the lane which led up to the church, another hymn was sung, in accents more bold, but equally melodious with the former:—
"O for an overcoming faith,
To cheer my dying hours,
To triumph o'er the monster Death,
And all his frightful pow'rs!
"Joyful, with all the strength I have,
My quiv'ring lips shall sing,
'Where is thy boasted vict'ry, Grave?
And where the monster's sting?'
"If sin be pardon'd, I'm secure;
Death hath no sting beside;
The law gives sin its damning pow'r;
But Christ, my ransom, died.
"Now to the God of victory
Immortal thanks be paid,
Who makes us conqu'rors while we die,
Through Christ, our living Head."
The venerable rector met the procession on its entering the burial-ground, and walked before it up the pathway leading to the church, reading, as he walked, the thrilling words of inspiration: "I am the resurrection and the life." The corpse was taken into the middle aisle of the church, and placed on a raised platform; the concourse of people attending seated themselves in the different pews, and listened with devout seriousness to the appointed lessons and portions of the Scripture, which Mr. Ingleby read in very impressive tones. When he had finished, the corpse was carried forth to the place of sepulture; where, after the rest of the burial-service was performed, it was deposited till the morning of the resurrection. When Robert and his little boy looked down into the grave which had just received the remains of her they loved, they wept, and returned to their house of mourning, cast down, yet animated by a hope of a reunion in the celestial world.
I stole away from the crowd, which was pressing round the grave to take the last look of the coffin, that I might indulge my reflections in solitude. Death was the theme of my meditation. Humiliating theme! How calculated to bring down the lofty spirit of pride, to extinguish the flame of ambition, to hush the contentions of discord!
A thrilling horror came over my spirit as I anticipated my own decease. I felt attached to life, and my nature recoiled in prospect of losing it. The lengthened sickness; the parting tear; the final farewell; the unknown pains of dying; the solemn anticipations of an immediate entrance into another world; the interment of my body in the cold, damp earth; the sighs of my bereaved widow and fatherless children; all rushed in upon my fancy. Never did the communication which the Redeemer once made to the mourner of Bethany appear so beautiful as at this moment: "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live: and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die." It was the light of life and the vision of immortality bursting in upon the empire of death; elevating my soul above the desolation around me, to look for the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, "who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself."
I did not leave the church-yard till the shadows of evening reminded me of the lateness of the hour, and of my having left my friends, who were waiting for me at the rectory. When I entered the study, the venerable rector said, "I am happy, Sir, to see you once more on this side the grave; I shall be more happy to see you on the other side; but before that blessed interview can take place, two graves must be opened, and we both must pass through the dark valley of the shadow of death. My grave-yard is much richer than it was when I commenced my labours in this parish; and in walking round it, my eye catches sight of monuments which bring to my recollection some with whom I have taken sweet counsel, and who will be, I have no doubt, my crown of rejoicing in the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ at his coming. They are now resting from their labours, and I shall soon rest from mine; and then we shall appear before the throne of God together, and serve him day and night in his temple, and for ever."
"You uniformly speak," said Mr. Stevens, "with confidence of your final salvation, but every disciple of Christ cannot do so; for I have noticed, within the limited circle of my Christian fellowship, great variation of mental feeling as the hour of departure has been drawing near. Some I have seen in solemn rapture when anticipating death; a sweet calmness of spirit in others; while in many I have known hope and fear alternately prevail. And though we may possibly trace up this varying state of feeling as death approaches, to physical causes, yet should we not contemplate the sovereignty of God at this crisis, who gives what portion of consolation he pleases?"
"I think the sovereignty of God is as conspicuous in the dying chamber as in the temple of grace; yet the Scriptures lead us to believe that there is an ordained, if not a natural connection between an eminently holy life and an eminently peaceful death. Hence the apostle, after enforcing on his readers the cultivation of the graces of the Christian character, concludes by saying, 'Wherefore the rather, brethren, give diligence to make your calling and election sure: for if ye do these things, ye shall never fall: for so an entrance shall be ministered unto you abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.' I have a funeral sermon, published by the Rev. Mr. Jay, which I have read with much satisfaction, particularly the following passage: 'The confidence of the people of God generally increases as death approaches. Hence Isaiah compares their peace to a river; for as a river rolls deeper and wider as it hastens to the sea, so their peace commonly becomes more solid and more extensive as they draw near eternity. In this view the change which Dr. Goodwin experienced was remarkable. "Is this dying?" exclaimed he, a little before he expired. "Is this what, for so many years, I have been dreading? Oh! how precious does the righteousness of the Saviour now appear!—He cannot love me better than he does; and I think I cannot love him better than I do." This is not a solitary instance. How many have we ourselves seen who wept upon the mountains of Zion, but rejoiced in the valley of the shadow of death; whose harps, long before hung upon the willows, were taken down, and delightfully used in singing the Lord's song in the most strange part of all the strange land! We cannot always account for things as effects, which yet we are compelled by observation and testimony to admit as facts. But the case before us sufficiently explains itself. The love of life having, from the will of God, no longer now any purposes to answer, is suffered to die away. By drawing near the better country, we feel something of its influence, as the perfumes of Arabia the Happy are blown into the neighbouring provinces. Above all, there is now more of the simplicity of faith. During life some degree of legality attaches to all our performances. Doing continually intermingles with believing; and often, insensibly to ourselves, we are anxious to make ourselves better, to entitle us to the divine favour, or to find something in ourselves wherein to hope, if not whereof to glory before God. But all this is now over. What can the believer do when dying? What qualifications can he then acquire? What attainments can he then propose? "Let him look back upon a well-spent life." This is impossible. Every review which he takes of himself is humbling. The very sins of his holy duties would drive him to despair. One resource remains—one, only one, which is always equal to our relief—one whose consolation is only hindered from flowing in to us by the want of simplicity of mind; it is looking by faith to the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world; it is to commit implicitly the soul to him. He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.'"
"I am fond of visiting the sick and the dying," said Mr. Lewellin. "When with them, I feel the truth of religion. The terror which seizes on the spirit of an infidel in his last moments, and the rapture which glows in the breast of the expiring Christian, are equally impressive and instructive. I have seen the unbeliever tremble as the footsteps of death have been heard; his face has turned pale through fear, or it has been beclouded by despair. I have heard him utter the most piercing cries; send forth heavy sighs and groans—the speechless messengers of woe; I have heard him reproach himself in the strongest language for his folly and his guilt, in having passed through life an enemy to the faith of Christ; and I have seen him expire in unutterable anguish. I have also seen the believer, calm and enraptured. I have heard the music of his soul becoming more soft and enchanting as the vital spirit has languished in his frame. I have listened while he has given utterance to his holy aspirations and blissful anticipations; but I have never heard one express any regret for his attachment to the doctrines of the gospel. I have never known one willing to renounce his faith, or give up his hope, in prospect of death."
"Nor I," said Mr. Ingleby; "and this circumstance is a strong evidence in favour of the adaptation of the gospel to our moral condition. Infidelity may contemn the faith of Christ, and hold up its friends to scorn, but she is faithless; for when her disciples want her comfort in their last hours, she generally leaves them as victims whom she has fitted for destruction, that she may mingle among the gay and the dissipated, to prepare them also for the pangs of the second death."
It was late before we left the rectory, and in passing the now desolated cottage, we saw light in the room, and on knocking at the door, we gained admittance. "Well, Robert," said Mr. Stevens, "you are not yet gone to bed."
"No, Sir; if I go to bed, I don't think that I shall sleep. I thought when my wife lay so ill, and suffered so much, that I should be willing to give her up to the Lord, if he would take her; but now she is gone, I feel my loss. No man can tell what death is till it comes. I love to think of her, for she was a good wife, and a good mother; and I should like to talk to her; but now if I go into the room, I find that I am alone; and this chills my heart. My boy tries to comfort me, but, poor fellow, he wants a comforter as well as I; for he loved his mother."
"But God can support you under your trial; for he has said, 'Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.'"
"Oh, yes; he does support me, and he has given me a spirit of resignation to his holy will; but, Sir, nature can't help feeling."
"But I do not suppose you would recall her from heaven, even if you were permitted."
"Why, Sir, it gives me pleasure to think that while I am mourning here below, she is happy and at rest in heaven; but if I were permitted to recall her, I am sure I should be tempted to do it; for she always tried to make me happy. She is gone, never more to return. In looking into her drawer, since we came back home, I found these papers, which I have just been reading."
Finding they were in Mrs. Allen's writing, I afterwards borrowed them, and having transcribed a copy of one, I here insert it. It was dated three months before her decease:—
"I have just been favoured with a singular manifestation of the loving-kindness of my Saviour. He has taken away the guilt of all my sins. He has removed all my doubts. He has given me peace, and has enabled me to resign my husband and child to his care. He will soon take me to himself. As I have felt at times great depression, and may in my last moments be unable to speak of his doings, I now record in writing what will not be seen till after I have seen him. I die a guilty and worthless sinner, depending on his death for salvation; and can say that I die in full and certain hope of a joyful resurrection to eternal life.
"Sarah Allen.
"Dear Widowed Husband,—Before you see this, I shall have passed through the valley, and joined the redeemed above. While you are weeping I shall be rejoicing; yet, if the spirits of the glorified are suffered to visit their earthly friends, I will often come and hover over you and the dear motherless child. Follow me as far as I followed Christ. Farewell, till we meet in glory.—Yours, for ever."