The will of the Lord coincided with the wish of this eminent disciple; and his was the sudden death, that he had asked of God. At 4 o’clock in the morning of June 20, 1798, paralysis seized upon his frame, and, before noon, he was no more.
Personal considerations of the flesh cannot be supposed, alone, to have moved the heart of this benevolent man. Who would not wish to avoid that pain, which is reflected, for days, and weeks, and months, and years, from the faces of those we love, who watch, and weep, about the bed of disease and death! Who can imagine this veteran soldier of the cross, with his armor of righteousness, upon the right hand and upon the left, awaiting the welcome signal to depart—without adopting, in the spiritual, and in the physical, sense, the language of the prophet—“Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.”
No. LXXVI.
I never dream, if I can possibly avoid it—when the thing is absolutely forced upon me, why that is another affair. On the evening of the second day of January, 1850, from some inexplicable cause, I lost all appetite for my pillow. I had, till past eleven, been engaged, in the perusal of Goethe’s Confessions of a Fair Saint. After a vain trial of the commonplace expedients, such as counting leaping sheep, up to a thousand and one; humming Old Hundred; and fixing my thoughts upon the heads of good parson Cleverly’s last Sabbath sermon, on perseverance; I, fortunately, thought of Joel Barlow’s Columbiad, and, after two or three pages, went, thankfully, to bed. I threw myself upon my right side, as I always do; for, being deaf—very—in the sinister ear, I thus exclude the nocturnal cries of fire, oysters, and murder.
I think I must have been asleep, full half an hour, by a capital Shrewsbury clock, that I keep in my chamber. It was, of course, on the dawning side of twelve—the very time, when dreams are true, or poets lie, which latter alternative is impossible. I was aroused, by the stroke of a deep-toned bell; and, in an instant, sat bolt upright, listening to the sound. I should have known it, among a thousand—it was the old passing bell of King’s Chapel. I am confident, as to the bell—it had the full, jarring sound, occasioned by the blockhead of a sexton, who cracked it, in 1814. I counted the strokes—one—two—three—an adult male, of course—and then the age—seventy-four was the number of the strokes of that good old bell, corresponding with the years of his pilgrimage—and then a pause—I almost expected another—so, doubtless, did he, poor man—but it came not!—Some old stager, thought I, has put up, for the long night; and the power of slumber was upon me, in a moment.
I slept—but it was a fitful sleep—and I dreamt such a dream, as none but a sexton of the old school can ever dream—
————“velut ægri somnia, vanæ
Fingentur species, ut nec pes, nec caput uni
Reddatur formæ.”
“Funeral baked meats,” and bride’s cake, and weepers, and wedding rings seemed oddly consorted together. At one moment, two very light and airy skeletons seemed to be engaged, in dancing the polka; and, getting angry, flung their skulls furiously at each other. I then fancied, that I saw old Grossman, driving his hearse at a full run, with the corpse of an intemperate old lady, not to the graveyard, but, by mistake, to the very shop, where she bought her Jamaica. I dare not relate the half of my dream, lest I should excite some doubt of my veracity. For aught I know, I might have dreamt on till midsummer, had not a hand been laid on my shoulder, and a change come over the spirit of my dream, in a marvellous manner—for I actually dreamt I was wider awake, than I often am, when Sirius rages, of a summer afternoon, and I am taking my comfort, in my postprandial chair.
Starting suddenly, I beheld the well known features of an old acquaintance and fellow-spadesman—“Don’t you know me?” “Yes,” said I—“no, I can’t say I do”—for I was confoundedly frightened—“Not know me! Haven’t we lifted, head and foot, together, for six and thirty years?” “Well, I suppose we have; but you are so deadly pale; and, will you be so kind as to take your hand from my shoulder; for it’s rather airy, at this season, you know, and your palm is like the hand of death.” “And such it is,” said he—“did you not hear my bell?” “Your bell?” I inquired, gazing more intently, at the little, white-haired, old man, that stood before me. “Even so, Abner,” he replied; “your old friend, and fellow-laborer, Martin Smith, is dead. I always had a solemn affection, for the passing bell. It sounded not so pleasantly, to be sure, in the neighborhood of theatres and gay hotels; and its good, old, solemnizing tones are no longer permitted to be heard. I longed to hear it, once more; and, after they had laid me out, and left me alone, I clapped on my great coat, over my shroud, as you see, and ran up to the church, and tolled my own death peal. When, more than one hundred years ago, in 1747, Dr. Caner took possession, in the old way, by entering, and closing the doors, and tolling the bell, as the Rev. Roger Price had done before, in 1729, he did not feel, that the church belonged to him, half so truly as I have felt, for many years, whenever I got a fair grip of that ancient bell-rope.”