THE RECTOR'S DEATH-BED.
For several years Mr. Ingleby's health had been gradually declining, but to the last he displayed great vigour of intellect and vivacity of spirit. When I saw him on the occasion of my wedding visit to Mr. Lewellin, he appeared to be still hale and active, notwithstanding the great age which he had attained. In common with the rest of his friends, I expected that he might still be spared for a few years to instruct them by his counsels, and animate them by his example. Mr. Roscoe's death, however, proved a severe shock to him; he fell into a state of nervous depression; and after a violent cold which he took in going to visit a poor cottager, in a remote part of his parish, his parishioners began to fear that he would soon be removed from them. For several Sabbaths he was confined to the rectory; but when he grew a little better, he resumed the discharge of his pastoral duties. Though he brought into the pulpit the stores of knowledge which he had been collecting for many years, and felt his spirit still glowing with the ardour of an intense affection for the spiritual and eternal welfare of his hearers, his energy was now considerably abated; his voice, which was originally full and commanding, became low and enfeebled, and he often appeared exhausted by fatigue, even before he had half finished the service.
We sometimes see a congregation, which a minister has collected together in the days of his vigour, forsaking him in his old age, to pay their homage to the rising sun of popularity; preferring the voice of a comparative stranger to that of their former shepherd; but the venerable Ingleby was never deserted. The people pressed to hear him when the silver locks of age adorned his head, with as much eagerness as when he possessed all the energy of youth; and felt as deep an interest in the last services which he conducted, as in any that had preceded them. It must be admitted that his situation did not bring him within the immediate influence of any strong competition for public favour; but though many of his congregation resided much nearer other clergymen, they nevertheless, at all seasons of the year, continued regular in their attendance on the ministrations of Mr. Ingleby to the close of his life. This attachment to their pastor took its rise in the usefulness of his public labours; and as he had uniformly conducted himself amongst them as a holy man of God, devoting his time and his influence to promote their happiness, his character rose in their esteem as circumstances gave him an opportunity of developing it. He acted on the following maxims, which were given him by an aged clergyman, not long after he took orders, and the practical utility of whose advice Mr. Ingleby soon experienced in securing him the permanent regard of his flock:—"Preserve the sanctity of your public character in the intercourse of private and social life. Do not visit your people often, except when they need your visits, and then convince them, that while you have no time to spare for the purposes of amusement or recreation, you are ever ready to attend to the claims of pastoral duty. Avoid engaging in the commerce of the world; yet never think that you are acting beneath the dignity of your station when engaged in giving advice to the inexperienced, or assisting others by your counsels, to guide their affairs with discretion. Let the poor of your flock know that their pastor is their friend in adversity, their advocate when oppressed, and will be their comforter when on the bed of sickness or of death."
About a month before his decease he arose on the Sabbath morning free from pain, the spirit of former times came upon him, and he felt that he could get through the labours of the day, without availing himself of the assistance which his neighbour, the Rev. Mr. Guion, had so kindly offered. The text from which he addressed the congregation was taken from 2 Pet. i. 13, 14:—"Yea, I think it meet, as long as I am in this tabernacle, to stir you up, by putting you in remembrance; knowing that shortly I must put off this my tabernacle, even as our Lord Jesus Christ hath showed me." When he read the words, the attention of the people was immediately fixed on him. The effect which was produced by the delivery of this discourse was very powerful. It was undoubtedly much aided by the peculiar circumstances of the speaker, who was grown gray and infirm in the service of the people, and who in his introduction informed them, that he was led to the choice of the subject, under an impression, which left no doubt of the propriety of its application to himself. The aspect of the preacher, pale, emaciated, standing on the verge of eternity—the simplicity and majesty of his sentiments—the sepulchral solemnity of a voice which seemed to issue from the shades, combined with the intrinsic dignity of the subject—perfectly quelled the audience with tenderness and terror, and produced such a scene of audible weeping as was perhaps never surpassed. All other emotions were absorbed in devotional feeling; it seemed to us as though we were permitted for a short space to look into eternity, and every sublunary object vanished before "the powers of the world to come." "I had often heard him," says Mr. Stevens, in a letter which I received from him, "when he was more energetic, but never when he was more impressive; when he discovered more originality of genius, but never when he displayed more intensity of feeling; when he employed a more polished and a more imaginative style of address, but never when he spoke with more authority and power; and, thinking with the rest of the audience, that he was now terminating his labours, I felt a high gratification that he was enabled to bring them to a close with so much credit to himself, as the able and faithful minister of the New Testament. His appeal to the people, after he had finished his discourse and closed his Bible, delivered in simple and unaffected language, subdued the whole audience, and left us, when he had finished it, no alternative but an involuntary burst of sorrow that we should hear no more that voice to which we had so often listened."
The following is an extract from the Rector's farewell sermon:—
"My dearly beloved brethren, I have now served you in the ministry of the gospel for more than forty years, and am on the eve of closing my labours amongst you. Looking back on my life, I discover many defects in my character, and many imperfections in the manner in which I have discharged my public duties; these I most humbly deplore; but I trust they have been only the ordinary infirmities of a Christian minister, who has uniformly aimed to reach a higher point of excellence than he could ever attain. If I cannot, like the great apostle of the Gentiles, appeal to the holiness and unblameableness of my behaviour amongst you; yet I trust I can to the ardour of my affection, and the fidelity of my public ministrations; and while I would entreat you to cast the veil of charity over all the blemishes of my character, I would, at the same time, charge 'every one of you, as a father doth his children, that ye would walk worthy of God, who hath called you unto his kingdom and glory.' The truth which I have preached to you is now my support in prospect of the scene which is before me. The time of my departure is at hand. My course is nearly finished. I shall soon stand before the judgment-seat of Christ. My eternal state shall soon be decided; and I shall soon know the final decision. But I am not alarmed. I do not dread death. The judgment-seat does not appal me. The final sentence awakens no fearful forebodings of sorrow. I am looking for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ unto eternal life. Whether I shall ever be permitted to address you again from this pulpit, is known only to Him who works all things after the counsel of his own will; nor do I feel very solicitous to do so. If I should, I shall appear amongst you in weakness, if not in fear and in much trembling; and if I should not, I hope you will be provided with another minister, who will, either in this church, or elsewhere, as the Lord may direct, preach, to you with more energy, and with more success, the glorious gospel which I have so often proclaimed to you. But I cannot leave you without saying, that as I have not shunned to declare the whole truth of God in the most faithful manner, if any of you should eventually perish, you will not have it in your power to say that it was owing to my unfaithfulness. Any of you perish! What! will you reject the counsel of God against yourselves? Will you refuse to come to Jesus Christ, that you may have life? Will you neglect the great salvation, which has been made known unto you; and sink down to endless woe under the accumulated guilt of your impenitence? Must I be compelled to appear as a witness against any of you, in that day when God shall judge the secrets of men by Jesus Christ according to my gospel? and, instead of seeing you accepted in the Beloved, shall I see you banished from the presence of the Lord for ever? And must I now terminate my labours amongst you, under the awful impression, that while they have been the means of saving some, they have become the innocent occasion of aggravating the just condemnation of others? and thus, like the apostle, while to some I have been the savour of life unto life, must I be to others the savour of death unto death?"
When the service was over, many of the people crowded into the aisle though which he passed; some stood in the porch of the church, others along the pathway which led across the graveyard, and some few followed him to the rectory, to shake hands with him and bid him farewell; sorrowing, like the elders of Ephesus, when they fell on Paul's neck and kissed him, most of all that they should see his face no more. This spontaneous expression of attachment, on the part of the people, deeply affected the venerable man, who wept as he reiterated his parting benediction to the aged and the young; and though he had strength given him to go through this trying hour, yet, on entering his parlour, he complained of a giddiness, and immediately fell fainting into the arms of Mr. Lewellin. This excited considerable alarm through the whole family; and one of the servants, in the paroxysm of her agony, sent forth the report that her master was dead. On his being removed into the open air, however, he soon revived, though, from the distorted appearance of his countenance, it was evident that he had received a slight paralytic stroke. He slept the greater part of the afternoon, but towards evening became very animated, and for several hours conversed, with great cheerfulness, on the immortality of the soul, and its final and blissful destiny.
When Socrates was under sentence of death, he assured his friends, who came to offer him their sympathy, that his chief support in prospect of taking the fatal draught, was an expectation, not unmixed with doubts, of a happy existence after death. From reasoning and reflecting on the subject, he had been led to the conviction that something of man remains after his decease, and that the condition of good men will at last be better than that of the bad; but he could not discover in all his researches, any positive evidence in support of this opinion; and hence, while he expressed a hope of entering the invisible world on passing away from this, he candidly acknowledged that he had his doubts. "My situation," said the venerable Ingleby, "is more enviable than that of the sage of Athens. He doubted the immortality of the soul, while I firmly believe it. And why do I believe it? Not because my nature revolts at the thought of annihilation; not because I feel an instinctive desire to outlive the triumphs of death; but because He who sees the end from the beginning has said, that the wicked 'shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous shall go into life eternal.'"
"We ought," said Mr. Lewellin, "to be very thankful to the Author of revelation, for having announced the fact of our immortality in such a clear and unequivocal manner; for it has always struck me, that no other argument can be admitted as conclusive, but the testimony of one who has an actual knowledge of an endless futurity."
"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Ingleby; "for how is it possible for any being to know that I shall live for ever but that Great Being who knows the end from the beginning? The communications which we have in the Bible, on this subject, are professedly his testimony; but if we reject these communications as fabulous, we must either give up our hope of immortality, as an idle fancy, or abandon ourselves to that state of dubious uncertainty, in which the Athenian sage lived and died. And to this dilemma the infidels of modern times are reduced; hence, while they cannot disbelieve in a future state of existence, they cannot anticipate it with any degree of confidence. If the gospel be, what they say it is, a cunningly devised fable, which has its origin, not in the records of truth, but in the invention of man, it is a fable which is eminently conducive to human happiness; and I should consider that man my enemy, who would even attempt to expose its fallacy. I am now near the close of life, the tomb is opening to receive me, and ere long I shall cease to be an inhabitant of this world. Am I to perish like the beasts of the field? or am I to exist in another state of being? These are questions which now present themselves to my mind, with an air of solemn majesty, which they never before assumed; but to whom can I propose them, with any hope of obtaining a satisfactory reply? There is no voice which speaks, but that which comes from the excellent glory; and that voice tells me, that this mortal shall put on immortality; that death shall be swallowed up in victory; and it teaches me to offer my thanksgivings to God, who hath given me the victory over the fear of death, and the terror of the grave, through our Lord Jesus Christ."
"The language," observed Mr. Stevens, "which our Lord addressed to his disciples, just before his departure, to assuage the violence of their grief, is no less calculated to afford us consolation under our sufferings, especially when we are brought near the verge of eternity:—'Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.'"
"I do believe in Him," replied the Rector, "and enjoy the influence of that belief, in the calm placidity of my mind. I do believe that he is preparing a place for me amongst the mansions of the blessed, and I enjoy the influence of that belief in the sublime anticipations of hope. Yes, I shall soon see him in all the glory of his majesty, and in all the tenderness of his compassion; and with the rest of the redeemed I shall soon bow down in his presence with mingled emotions of astonishment and delight! With astonishment, that he ever condescended to love me, and to employ me in his service; and with delight, at the scenes which I shall then behold, and the voices which I shall then hear. Then shall I be satisfied when I am assimilated to the Divine likeness."
"You have then no doubt of your final salvation?"
"No, Sir; I wait for it as an event of absolute certainty."
"I perceive," rejoined Mr. Stevens, "that you now make no reference to the opinion which you have so often expressed respecting the 'different degrees of glory which the righteous will have conferred on them in the heavenly world.'"
"I am too deeply anxious on the more important point of getting into heaven, to bestow even a moment's consideration on the degree of my future happiness. I know I shall have infinitely more than I deserve; even if I should have less than the least of all saints; and I am perfectly willing to take what portion my Lord may assign me, under a full conviction that—
'The man who dwells where Jesus is,
Must be completely blest.'"
"I once heard you say," remarked Mrs. Stevens, "that you had no doubt but we should know each other in the heavenly world. Have you, Sir, on more mature deliberation, been induced to change that opinion?"
"No, Madam. When I enter heaven, I shall not forget that I was once an inhabitant of earth—that I once lived in a state of rebellion against God—that he was pleased to bring me to repentance and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ—that he employed me in the ministry, and assigned to me the parish of Broadhurst as the scene of my labours—that I associated in the days of my pilgrimage, with you and your husband, your nephew and his wife, and other Christian friends—and that in the exercise of social communion I once enjoyed some tokens of the Divine favour. If then we shall retain a distinct recollection of places and occurrences connected with our earthly sojourn, we shall surely not forget the persons who gave to those places and occurrences their chief interest and importance. Suppose I should now, while you are sitting by my side, steal out of life, and enter heaven, should I on my passage lose a remembrance of the room in which I expired, or the events which have transpired this day? Impossible! And could I remember these things, without remembering you and my other pious friends? And when you arrive, and are presented faultless, will you not be presented faultless in the individuality of your person, with all your remembrances of places, of persons, and events fresh upon you? And will it be possible for us to associate with each other without making some reference to the former state of our existence, which will necessarily lead to a discovery of who we are, and from whence we came, even if there should be no more direct method of gaining a knowledge of each other? But apart from this general reasoning, we may appeal to the Scriptures, which, I think, give their decided sanction to these views. Hence we find the apostle, when writing to the Thessalonians, who had through his instrumentality been converted to the faith of Christ, says, 'For what is our hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at his coming? For ye are our glory and joy.' I cannot affix any meaning to this passage, unless I believe, that each apostle, and every minister in every succeeding age of the church, will know the persons who have been converted to God through their instrumentality; and that from this knowledge will arise some peculiar degree of glory and of joy."
"Then, Sir," said Mr. Lewellin, "doubtless you can now anticipate a high degree of felicity from this source, as God has been pleased to make your ministry very useful?"
"I have no doubt but I shall partake of this source of happiness; but I am not now anticipating it. My mind is too deeply occupied by the important question of getting into heaven, to bestow one solitary thought on the minor questions of our speculative belief. I am nearing the borders of the holy land of promise; living now in the anticipation of soon seeing the King in his beauty, and of undergoing that transformation which I shall feel when I see him."
"Then, Sir, you think you will 'shortly put off this tabernacle,' and enter that 'house which is not made with hands, eternal in the heavens?'"
"Yes, Mr. Lewellin; and I can put it off with as much composure as I can throw aside a worn-out surplice. The time of my departure is near."
"But," said Mrs. Lewellin, "what shall we do when you are taken from us? We shall be like the sheep, when the shepherd is gone!"
"No, my dear friend, the great Shepherd may pitch another fold, and lead you to another pasturage; but he will still 'feed his flock; he will gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and will gently lead those that are with young.'"
His friends now left him to repose. He slept through the greater part of the night, but towards the morning became very restless—often complaining of a strange sensation in his head. He took a light breakfast, and as he felt rather drowsy, requested that he might not be disturbed. About noon he awoke; but felt no disposition to rise. He again took a little nourishment, and again fell asleep, and slept till near five o'clock. When he awoke he asked the hour, but he paid no attention to the reply which was made to him. His physician now gave it as his decided opinion that he would not live through the night. "He is in no pain; and if I judge from the state of his pulse, I should suppose that his life will gradually depart from him; perhaps when he is asleep." But about seven o'clock he suddenly revived, sat up in his bed, and requested to have his hands and his face washed. When this office of kindness was performed for him, by Mrs. Lewellin, he looked on her for some moments without uttering a word; and then stretching out his hand he said, "My dear, I thank you. You have not anointed me against my burial; but you have refreshed me to encounter the last enemy. Death is upon me, but he does not come in a terrific form. No; he is changed from the king of terrors into an angel of deliverance. I will thank you, Sir," addressing himself to Mr. Lewellin, "to read the eighth chapter of Paul's Epistle to the Romans, and then pray for me; and pray that I may be favoured with a sense of the Divine presence when passing through the valley of the shadow of death." Mr. Lewellin having complied with his wishes, the venerable pastor then gave his friends his blessing; exhorting them to cleave to the Lord with full purpose of heart. After remaining silent for some minutes, during which time he appeared to be in the solemn act of commending his soul to God, he looked round with great benignity of countenance, and said, "Why, my children, do you weep?"
"Is it possible, Sir," Mrs. Lewellin replied, "for us to lose such a pastor and such a friend without weeping?"
"Well, I will forgive your tears, because I know you love me; but I cannot weep with you. Though I have not before me that scene of martyrdom which presented itself to the great apostle of the Gentiles, when addressing his son Timothy, yet I can adopt the triumphant language which he then uttered, and with an equal degree of confidence:—'I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.'" And having uttered these words he reclined his head on his pillow, and gently breathed his last.