To be with dire afflictions tost and tore, The suffering little boy he was before!
But during the last months he was with his kind affectionate, attentive Aunt and Uncle, who have been long in the ways of God, and have had a most clear and blessed experience of grace and truth themselves, they were often highly delighted to see the work of grace so eminently displayed in their dear little suffering nephew. Many precious things he said to me, but as a father, perhaps it might be attributed to weakness, or an inordinate affection for a son, if I made any remarks. ’Tis however very pleasing to me that his dear Aunt was enabled to seize a few opportunities, secretly, to pen down some of those words which fell from him at times. A few only, can be asserted here, but which plainly indicates the work of grace upon his heart, by the confession of his lips, and sweetly proving, that out of the mouth of this dear child God had ordained his own glory.
The contents of the following letter, sent to me by his Aunt, I beg leave also to insert, without a single comment of my own.
Dear Brother,
Believing you would be desirous of knowing the dealings of the Lord with your dear child, I have endeavored to preserve a small part of what fell from his lips during the last weeks of his afflicted life. I say a small part, because the whole, had it not been for the necessary and close attention to his person, would have swelled a volume.
Previous to the time when he was confined to his bed, which was the latter end of December, when I had an opportunity to set with him, he would often talk on divine subjects, and appeared deeply interested in the things that pertained to his own salvation. He mentioned several sermons he had heard Dr. Andrews, of Walworth, preach, but particularly one, from, Oh my Dove, that art in the cleft of the rock. He ran through the several ideas that was advanced, with great correctness and interest. At another time when we were conversing about eternal things, he said, Aunt, I should not be afraid to die, if I was sure I had an interest in Christ! You know it is possible to be deceived, and many people are. I never said so much to any one as I have to you. I talked to my dear father, and he answered me much the same as you have.
About the middle of February, when helping him out of bed, very helpless, and in great pain, he said, Aunt, I seem to have a hope that I shall be saved! Do you not think that answer to prayer is some evidence? and I am sure that many of my poor simply prayers have been answered.
February 26.—He held a truly interesting conversation with his Uncle, expressing the strongest desire to know if he was truly drawn to Christ! On the evidences being given to him, he appeared much refreshed, and said, It may be when I am nearer to death that the Lord may give me a full assurance. He often said how good the Lord is; I have more to be thankful for than to complain of! Once he said, Well Aunt, who can tell but the Lord may cure me? and if he does not, he will do a great deal better for me!—But for want of time, I must omit many very blessed things, and relate what more particularly transpired towards the close. The few last days in February, and the first and second of March, he was in great pain, and there was an evident alteration for the worst. In the night of the second of March, he said, Oh! affliction! affliction! My poor body is quite worn out! Oh! I wish for more patience and resignation. Aunt, I had rather lay here, with all my pains, than be running about the streets, in health, like many boys I know, cursing and swearing, and sinning against God. In the same night, he said, Oh! I hope we shall meet in Heaven! On my expressing the same hope, he cried out, Ah! but I want more than hope! I want assurance! Oh! I hope the Lord will sanctify this affliction.
Lord’s day, March the third.—He asked me to read. After reading the word, and some hymns, he smiled, and said, How precious that is! I wish you had nothing else to do but to talk and read to me. In the evening of that day, he was in great pain. From twelve at night till three in the morning, his tongue was like the pen of a ready-writer. I said to him, My dear, have you long had serious thoughts about your soul? He answered, No, Aunt, not any thing particularly, till within a twelvemonth. How was it at the beginning with you? Why, I was very much alarmed for fear I should go to hell! I used to have such dark horror on my mind as I cannot describe! I used to cry till I fell asleep, and then I used to dream it was the day of judgment, and wake very much terrified! I dreamt this a great many times. I cannot tell you what I went through, with the dark horror at day, and the terrifying dreams at night. Did you not feel at times, hopes springing up, that the Lord would save you, through Christ Jesus? Yes, very often, when I have been hearing my father, and Dr. Andrews, but afterwards I have been much distressed, for fear they were not right hopes. I never talked about what I felt. I thought people might think as I was a child that I heard a great deal about religion, it was what I had picked up—then added, with a strong voice and great satisfaction, But I know that what I picked up then, does me good now! Aunt, the last time I sung that hymn, Ah! I shall soon be dying, I never sung so in my life! I sung and cried! I sung as if I had another voice besides my own—I was so full of joy.—I spoke to Him of the great love of God, in calling him to the knowledge of himself, and bringing him to Jesus, for life and salvation. He replied, Oh! it is a great love. I keep you awake, but my heart is so full that I cannot help talking. This is but a small part of what passed on that, to me, memorable night.
March the 4th.—A young man was saying, when he was about thirteen years of age, he was so ill that used to pray to die. Samuel remarked after he was gone, That he did not know what death was, nor what it was to have a hell in his heart, or else he would not talk so.—Aunt, what a very precious hymn that is: All the fitness he requireth, is to feel your need of Him.—Oh! I hope I shall be able to say, as dear Mrs. Lawson said, when near death, I know in whom I have believed.—I hope my father will not grieve when I die—why should he? He often said, O that my warfare was ended.