LETTER XXIV.
DEATH.
THERE is a subject, which perhaps, more than any other, is presented to children, erroneously, and injuriously. It is that of the exchange of worlds. They see it surrounded with every accompaniment of gloom. They may be told that the soul of the departed friend, is in a happier world. But they witness, bitter and uncontrollable mourning, and the evidence of their senses, overpowers the lifeless precept. Fear of death, takes possession of them, before they can comprehend the faith which looks beyond the coffin, the knell, and the tomb: so, that "all their lifetime, they are subject to bondage."
Christians err, in not speaking to each other more frequently and familiarly of death. Teachers of youth, and mothers, should not hesitate to make it the theme of their discourse. And when they do so, they should divest their brow of gloom, and their tone, of sadness. While they mingle it with solemnity, they should soften it from terror, lest they bow down the tender mind, like those heavy rains, which wash away the bloom of the unfolding flower.
I once attended a funeral in a remote village of Moravians. It was in the depth of summer. Every little garden put forth beauty, and every tree was heavy with fresh, cool verdure.
It was a sabbath afternoon, when a dead infant was brought into the church. The children of the small congregation, wished to sit near it, and fixed their eyes upon its placid brow, as on a fair piece of sculpture. The sermon of the clergyman, was to them. It was a paternal address, humbling itself to their simplicity, yet lofty, through the deep, sonorous, tones of their native German. Earnestly and tenderly they listened, as he told them bow the baby went from its mother's arms, to those of the compassionate Redeemer. When the worship closed, and the procession was formed, the children, two and two, followed the mourners, leading each other by the hand, the little girls clothed in white.
The place of slumber, for the dead, was near the church, where they had heard of Jesus. It was a green, beautiful knoll, on which the sun, drawing towards the west, lingered with a smile of blessing. The turf had the richness of velvet, not a weed, or a straw defaced it. Every swelling mound was planted with flowers, and a kind of aromatic thyme, thickly clustering, and almost shutting over the small, horizontal tomb-stones, which recorded only the name, and date of the deceased. In such a spot, so sweet, so lowly, so secluded, the clay might willingly wait its reunion with the spirit.
Before the corpse, walked the young men of the village, bearing instruments of music. They paused at the gate of the place of burial. Then a strain from voice and flute, rose, subdued and tremulous, like the strings of the wind-harp. It seemed as if a timid, yet prevailing suppliant, sought admission, to the ancient city of the dead.
The gate unclosed. As they slowly wound around the gentle ascent, to the open grave, the Pastor with solemn intonation, repeated passages from the Book of God. Thrilling, beyond expression, amid the silence of the living, and the slumber of the dead, were the blessed words of our Saviour, "I am the resurrection and the life."
He ceased, and all gathered round the brink of the pit. The little ones drew near, and looked downward into its depths, sadly, but without fear. Then, came a burst of music, swelling higher and higher, till it seemed no longer of earth. Methought, it was the welcome in heaven, to the innocent spirit, the joy of angels over a new immortal, that had never sinned. Wrapped as it were, in that glorious melody, the little body was let down to its narrow cell. And all grief, even the parent's grief was swallowed up, in that high triumph-strain. Devotion was there, giving back what it loved, to the God of love, not with tears, but with music. Faith was there, standing among flowers, and restoring a bud to the Giver, that it might bloom in a garden which could never fade.
Will those children ever forget the lesson learned at that infant's grave? When I looked on their sweet, serious faces, as they walked lovingly from the place of tombs, I thought they felt, what those of grey hairs, are often "too slow of heart to believe," that in death, there is victory.
In order to give to those whom we instruct, cheering and consoling views of Death, we must correct our own. We must make it the subject of daily contemplation, praying for divine grace, to consider it as the consummation of our highest hope, the end for which we were born, the summons to arise, and take upon us the nature of angels. We have seen, or read, with what calmness, the righteous have passed away. Sometimes, scarce a feature has been changed, a thought ruffled in the transition. Beda, while dictating from the Bible, to his disciples, put his band into the hand of death, and scarcely felt its coldness. Herder was writing a hymn to the Deity, with his pen upon the last line, when he passed into his presence. We should not shun the chamber of the dying. The bed on which they lie, is the teacher of wisdom, both solemn and sublime. The pious Margaret, mother of king Henry 7th, maintained under her own roof, a number of poor persons. She supplied their wants, and consoled them in sickness, and in pain. Especially would she be always by their side, at their death, and attend them to their grave. Being asked, why she thus voluntarily exposed herself to such scenes of sadness, she replied, "that I may learn how to die."
The Almighty has surrounded Death, with many circumstances of dread, that the rash and thoughtless might not rush upon it, when harrowed up by disappointment, or disgusted at the world. The heathen in his ignorance, and the sinner in his guilt, alike tremble at its approach. But the christian, should neither shrink back from the last messenger, nor grieve bitterly for those friends who are called before him. Nature's tear at parting, cannot be restrained. Yet let no violent and bitter sorrow, visit the death-bed of the christian. It is a pagan sentiment. It should find no place near their pillow, for whom Christ died. While we mourn, the happy, unfettered spirit, traverses a celestial region. It has attained a purer existence. By a voice, which our earthly ear might not hear, God called it, and it arose, and put off its cumbrous garments, that it might perfectly do his will. An invisible hand drew it within the casement of the ark. Why should we, who still ride the billows, and bide the storm, lament for the bark that bath found a secure shelter? a haven from whence it shall go forth no more? Why should we forget to give glory to God, for having taken to unchanging bliss, the friend whom we loved?
Death, to the suffering body, and the willing soul, is the herald of release. Its terrors, for surely it bath terrors, arise from other sources: from things left undone, that ought to have been done, and from things done, that ought not to have been done. Let us guard against these fearful evils, now in the time of health and hope, and live every day, as if it were to be our last on earth. When disappointments press on the spirit, and the world seems joyless, some have mistaken this despondence for resignation to death. But the repining, with which we look on the cloud, or the tempest, or the broken idol, is not the principle which will bear us triumphantly through the dark valley. It is possible to be weary of life, and yet unwilling to die. Faithful duty, and daily penitence, and prayerful trust, are the safest armour for those, who know not at what hour they may he summoned. "Do all things, as if you were to die to-morrow," said a writer of antiquity. Thus, Death, coming as a guest, long prepared for, may be both welcomed by us, and bear to us the welcome of angels.
We pay deference to good teachers. We desire to secure the benefits of their wisdom, for ourselves, and for our children. But who teaches like Death? Who like him reveals character? and unveils motives which had lain for many years, in a locked casket? and strips the illusion from the things which men covet? and makes us feel our own pitiable weakness, in not being able to soften the last pang for those we love? "The sun is best seen, at his rising and setting, says Boyle, so men's native dispositions are most clearly perceived, while they are children, and when they come to die." Though the chamber, where the man of wealth, meets his doom, displays every comfort and luxury that art can devise, who can behold the almost infantine helplessness of their possessor, without a new and deep feeling of the poverty of all costly things, the silk, the velvet, and the silver, which so many envy, and for which some sell their souls. Truly they seem as the "small dust of the balance," when he may not reach out a hand to touch them, or even bestow a glance upon them, for a heavy business absorbs him, and time is for him no longer, and his soul is demanded, and must go forth, to give account of itself, and of the use it has made of those treasures from which it parts.
We should consider the goodness of God, in giving to our wearied frames the repose of the grave. The dim eye seeks a long sleep. The ear rests from the toil of gathering sounds. The lip grows silent. The limbs cease from their labour. The senses, those reporters of the mind, resign their office. In the citadel of life, the sentinels slumber. The red fluid, so long circulating through its thousand channels, stagnates. The clay-fabric, mysteriously tenanted by the unresting spirit, is ready to dissolve. "God giveth his beloved, sleep."
Let not the couch where Nature takes her last farewell, be troubled by demonstrations of undisciplined sorrow, from those who surround it. The ill-judged efforts of friends, too often heighten the suffering they would fain relieve. Changes of position, fruitless attempts to administer medicine, or nourishment, the restless officiousness of grieving affection, distress the voyager to the world of spirits. Even a heathen Emperor could counsel that the great transition should be made with calmness. "Thou hast taken ship, thou hast sailed, thou hast come to land. Go tranquilly out of the ship into another life. Are not the Gods there?"
Death, physiologically considered, is the tending of the mortal part, to its appointed and needful rest. It is not probably attended by the extreme agony, with which imagination invests it. The principle of consciousness is often sooner released, than some of the organs on which it has been accustomed to act. They continue a part of their functions, from habit, rather than volition; as the strings of the harp, may vibrate with a prolonged echo, after the hand that swept them has departed. So that the friend, on whose convulsions we gaze, is sometimes insensible to the pain at whose indications we shudder.
But admitting that the pangs of death, transcend what have been endured through life. How brief are they, how unworthy to be "compared to the glory that shall be revealed." May we not even suppose the happiness of heaven, to be heightened by the contrast? The deep darkness of the shadowy vale, yielding to a day which knows no night, the sharp severance of body and soul, lost in those pleasures which the "heart of man hath never conceived," the moans of dissolution, exchanged for the music of cherubim and seraphim, the tear of parting from earthly friends, forgotten in the greeting of the "spirits of the just, made perfect," what is there in the whole range of material things, that can furnish type or shadow of such a contrast? Was it not in the mind of the eloquent Pascal, when he said, "the glory of our faith, shines with much greater brightness, by our passing to immortality, through the shades of death."
How many instances have we known, of not merely a calm departure, but a joyful translation, to the realms of bliss. A pious clergyman of Scotland, had lived to a venerable old age. One morning, after breakfasting with his family, he reclined a while in his chair, silently meditating. Suddenly he spoke, "Daughter, hark! doth not my Master call me?" Asking for his Bible, he perceived that his eyes were dim, and he could no longer read its precious words. "Find for me, said he, the eighth chapter of Romans, and lay my finger on the passage, "I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." "Now is my finger placed upon these blessed words?" Being assured that it was, he said, "Then God bless you, God bless you all, dear children. I have refreshed myself with you this morning, and shall be at the banquet of my Saviour, ere it is night." And thus he died. Another pious man, who had practised daily reading and explaining the Scriptures in his family, continued it, during his last illness. Once, while remarking upon a chapter, he suddenly exclaimed, "What brightness do I see? Have you lighted any candles?" They replied that they had not, for it was a summer's afternoon, and the twilight had not yet come. Then clear, glad voice, be said, "now, farewell, world! and welcome heaven! for the day-star from on high, hath visited me. Oh, speak it when I am gone, and tell it at my funeral, that God dealeth familiarly with man. I feel his mercy, I see his majesty, whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth. But I behold things unutterable." And filled with joy, he expired.
Once, when Spring had begun to quicken the swelling buds, a fair form that was wont to linger among them, came not forth from her closely-curtained chamber. She was beautiful and young, but Death had come for her. His purple tinge, was upon her brow. The lungs moved feebly, and with a gasping sound. It would seem that speech had forsaken her. The mother bent over her pillow. She was her only one. Earnestly she besought her for one word, "only one more word, my beloved." It was in vain.
Yet again, the long fringes of her blue eyes opened, and what a bursting forth of glorious joy! They were raised upward, they expanded, as though the soul, would spring from them in ecstasy. Then, there was a whispering of the pale lips. The mother knelt down, and covered her face. She knew that the darling whom she had brought into the world, was to be offered up.
But there was one, deep, sweet, harp-like articulation, "praise." And all was over. Then, from that kneeling mother, came the same tremulous word "praise." Yet there was an ashy paleness on her brow, and they laid her fainting, by the side of the breathless and beautiful. There she revived, and finished the sentence that the young seraph had begun, "praise ye the Lord." The emotions of that death-scene, were too sublimated for tears.
More surely might we hope thus to part with our dear ones, and thus to die in Jesus, did we, in our brief probation, live near him, and for him. Friends, who have with me, meditated on many duties, and on the event that terminates them, dear friends, whom I shall never see in the flesh, may we meet in the vestments of immortality. With those, whom we have given birth, and nurtured, and borne upon our prayers, in the midnight watch, and at the morning dawn, may we stand, not one lost, a glorious company, where is neither shade of infirmity, or sigh of penitence, or fear of change, but where "affection's cup hath lost the taste of tears."