I know how difficult and delicate a task it is to speak of the closing hours of any life. I know that ordinarily one shrinks from it, and would veil such sacred things from view. But the last hours and the dying testimony of an eminent Christian, and that Christian an aged and distinguished Prelate in the Church, are a part of the Church's heritage. Nay more, it seems to me a sacred duty that I should declare to you the witness of those last hours to which I was allowed in some degree to minister, and the memory of which will go with me while I live. But I shall try to observe such reticence as the case demands, though not, perhaps, what he would have imposed upon me.
It pleased God in his mysterious providence that he should pass through great physical suffering before the release was granted. Yet no one ever heard, amid it all, a word of murmur, impatience or complaint. "Not more than I can bear," was the utmost acknowledgment of suffering that ever came from him. It was "the fellowship of suffering," making him perfect in the sufferer. Once when I had spoken to him of the comfort of the sustaining presence of the adorable Redeemer, he said fervently, "Yes, it is sufficient," and then solemnly lifting his hand towards heaven, he added, "and there is nothing else!"
The subdued and yet deeply earnest way in which he joined in the office of the last Communion he received on earth, and the fervency of his response, especially in the Confession, made the service, always so solemn and impressive, even more than ordinarily so. At its close, weak as he was, he rose to his feet, and joined, with a voice stronger than it had been before, and filled with deep emotion, in the Gloria in Excelsis. Fitting prelude to the eternal anthem which, this day, he sings in Paradise!
One scene there was, most dear and sacred perhaps of all, on which I may but barely touch. A dark and stormy day was drawing to its close; a day of gloom without, and of great anxiety and watchfulness within. Suddenly the storm clouds parted and were scattered, and the sun shone out almost with summer brightness. And within, the storm of suffering was stilled, and a space of rest was given to the sufferer, in which he spoke words of farewell and of blessing never to be forgotten; words for all present and absent too; words which not only proved that for him the sting of death was gone, but which mitigated also for others the bitterness of separation. It was a beautiful coincidence, the glorious sunlight without the dwelling, and within the light of a soul stayed on God, and cleansed in the blood of Christ, walking "through the valley of the shadow of death," and yet "fearing no evil," because of the comfort of the rod and the staff of God!
At last, in God's great mercy, all suffering seemed to pass away, and the soul was released, so quietly, that we hardly knew when the earthly life ended and the eternal life began. "For so he giveth his beloved sleep."
Thus feebly and imperfectly, with a sorrowing heart and a trembling hand, I have written and spoken, Beloved, of our departed Father in the Lord. I can not close, even at the risk of being charged with speaking, when I ought not, of myself, without one word concerning my personal relations to him. For almost thirty years I had known, on earth, no other Father. From his hands I received my confirmation; from his hands my ordination to the Diaconate and Priesthood, and my consecration to the Episcopate; and once more, that same hand, in his latest hours, was laid on my head in parting benediction. For more than thirteen years I had been with him in relations of the closest confidence, and—I thank God—he told me at the last, that "no shadow had ever come between us." Brethren, give me your prayers, that if I can not be what he was, I may at least follow at humble distance where he has led. For myself, I can only say now and here, "My Father, my Father, the chariot of Israel and the horsemen thereof!"
The briefest summary—no other can be needed, and, it may be, not even that—must close this painful task.
Our late Bishop was a godly man. His religion was not a religion that spent itself in words. Its stream was too deep and too full to flow otherwise than silently. But it spoke with that strongest logic and most persuasive rhetoric, the logic and the rhetoric of a consistent, even, well balanced Christian life. And this life was built up on those two foundations on which alone any Christian life can be built; trust in the merits of the Redeemer for salvation, and trust in the personal presence of the Holy Spirit, renewing the sinful soul to holiness. He was a true-hearted Churchman. In those convictions of the Church's claims to which careful and deliberate study brought him, he never wavered. Through life they went with him; through evil report and good report; and peacemaker as he was, he proved, time and again, that he would never seek peace at the sacrifice of principles. He was a wise ruler. As one has well said, he governed without seeming to govern. Giving to all their rights, all gave his rights to him, gladly and without reserve. He was a faithful Bishop. Few knew under what trial of physical suffering he went his rounds of duty, with such cheerful adaptation of himself to all persons and all places; with such thoughtful kindness and regard for the feelings of all with whom he came in contact; never allowing annoyance, and never, by any chance, giving discomfort on his way. Making such allowance as we must ever make for human infirmity and sinfulness, I ask, and I know the answer that will be given, did he not fulfill the solemn pledges of his consecration? Did he not teach his people from the Word of God? Did he not exercise himself in that Word, and "teach and exhort with wholesome doctrine," in his preaching, in his charges to his clergy and his people, and in his published works? Did he not faithfully watch against erroneous and strange doctrine? Was he not "an example of good works unto others?" Did he not maintain "quietness, peace and love among all men;" and diligently exercise discipline; and faithfully ordain others? And was he not merciful and gentle for Christ's sake to the poor and needy?
With this witness then, Beloved, given by us here, laid up for him on high, I leave him, my friend, my Bishop and my Father, in the memories of his people, in the rest of his sleep in Jesus, in the glorious life of Paradise! As I close, words of our Blessed Lord are in my heart, and come unbidden to my lips.
"Blessed are the meek! for they shall inherit the earth!"