(From the Christian Magazine, Vol. IX., October, 1805,
by DR. THOMAS MCCRIR, D.D.)
(Continued from page 266.)
Next morning, which was the first day of the year 1651, as soon as he perceived the light, he said, “Lord, thou hast indulged me with the sight of another year: thou hast prolonged my life to the middle of this century.” Being informed that the weather was inclement, he expressed an anxiety lest his son should be hindered. That day he was visited by a great number of acquaintances, among whom were some from his native province of Poitou. To them he spoke thus:
“I rejoice that I have an opportunity of confessing my faith before you, who are my countrymen. I request you to treasure it up in your memory, and to testify it as it may be necessary. You see before you a man weak indeed, but without dissimulation, who attests, that he never wrote any thing which he has published, nor taught anything by word of mouth, which did not accord with the sentiments of his heart, and with the doctrine delivered by the prophets and apostles. It is the same with what is contained in the public Confession of those churches in which I now live, and in which I am resolved to die. The Lord, the omnipotent God confirm you in the faith, that no one may draw you away from it. Seek first the kingdom of heaven. Learn to number your days. Look at me; am not I an example to you? Eight days are now elapsed since I, then sound and healthful, addressed you on the subject of human weakness: see now in me the truth of what I spoke. Visible things which fall under the eye make a more deep impression than words that strike the ear.”
Then bidding them farewell, “the Lord,” said he, “keep you from the allurements of the world, and give you an increase of his fear, and of all spiritual and temporal blessings.”
Having risen from bed, and being seated upon a chair, he perceived that the swelling had now reached the cavity of his breast. Being apprehensive that his death was near, he sent for Dr. Dauber the lawyer, and consulted him about appending a codicil to his testament. When this was finished, he resumed his bed with great serenity. He again requested his niece to remain with him, and assist him in his prayers. Then, as one rapt in spirit, he exclaimed, “My God, thou hast drawn me, and I was drawn. Thou hast known me from the womb of my mother with a knowledge of mercy and power. Thou hast called me, thou hast opened mine ears, and I was attentive. I have preached thy message in the congregation, and thy word was sweeter than honey in my mouth. Who am I, O God, dust and ashes, an earthen brittle vessel, which thou hast honoured, by pouring into it the sacred liquor, the seed of immortality. Thou livest, and thou makest alive; I shall not die, but live through eternity that life which is hid with Christ in God. What can I say more? I am unworthy of that faith which thou hast wrought in me, and of the benefits thou hast conferred upon me. It pleased thee that I should be born of faithful parents, and especially of a holy mother, who from my infancy, consecrated me to thy service, excited me to the sacred resolution by many prayers, and, with the most anxious care and affection, infused into me the seeds of piety. The omnipotent God, who works all, blessed her sedulous culture, heard her fervent prayers, and accepted my ministry.”
On Monday he rose from bed, and was able to walk to his study, and write two short letters, one to his brother William, and another to his brother-in-law, Du Moulin. He expressed great anxiety to see his son. The physicians made still another attempt to remove the obstruction, by the use of the bath and the application of clysters. These, with frequent fomentations, relieved him a little, and symptoms of convalescence even began to appear. But the disorder was inveterate, and the pains returned. On Tuesday, his niece perceived him to be more than ordinarily afflicted, and, suspected by his sighs, that he laboured under more than bodily pain. At last, in a languid tone, he said, “Who is there? Is there any stranger present?” She assured him there was not, and inquired the reason of his disquietude, and of the absence of his wonted cheerfulness under his distress. “Alas,” answered he, “He who rejoiced my heart is departed from me; I have grieved the spirit of the Comforter. Wretch that I was. I listened to those who spoke of my restoration. I began to be pleased with the desire of life. Who would have thought it, after I had tasted the fruits of the celestial Canaan. What shall I do? Whither shall I go? When I speak, He answers me not. He hath deprived me of my wonted power of speech. Formerly a sacred fire inflamed my meditations; now vain thoughts drive across my mind. Ancient satire, and such trifles, intrude upon my recollection. Dearest niece,” said he, embracing her, “assist me by your discourse; pray that the Comforter may return.” While she suggested such places of Scripture as, through the divine blessing, might be the means of comfort to him, he showed, by what he said at intervals, that his mind began to emerge from trouble. But so severe had the conflict been that he fell into a swoon.
In the meantime, his son arrived from the Hague. Recovering from the faint, and seeing his friends around him, he fixed his eyes upon them, and with cheerfulness addressed them: “Farewell, my dearest wife; we have lived in concord for thirty years. I thank thee for thy assistance, which has been a great solace to me. I rolled all domestic cares upon thee. Persevere, I beseech thee, in treating my children with love. And thou, my son, love and be observant of this dearest companion of my life, the partner of my joys and sorrows, who has discharged the duty of a mother to thee. This I both request and command, as ever you would expect a blessing upon the substance acquired by my labour. Divide among yourselves, according to equity, without litigation and complaint. Chiefly cultivate peace; O Frederick* (alluding to the import of his name) “be rich in peace.” Then, taking both their hands, and joining them together, “Promise,” said he, “that you will cultivate a mutual and holy friendship.” When they had readily done this, “I believe you,” said he, “for I never had any reason to doubt of your sincerity.” He then commended to his son the care and education of the children of one of his deceased sons, whom he had taken and reared as his own.
When the day broke on Thursday, “It shines,” said he; “in a short time I shall not be able to distinguish between day and night. I approach to the last watch of the night which introduces the great and eternal day. I go to that place where the sun shall no more afford his light; but God shall be my eternal light.” In the evening he felt extremely weak, and his speech failed. “I am exhausted; I am going hence; succour me, O Lord, do not tarry.” But about midnight he recovered a little, and again addressed himself to his friends around him, mingling, as usual, prayers with his discourse.
On Friday he was so exhausted and parched with thirst, not daring to drink, that it appeared as if every moment would be his last. Towards the evening the pains greatly increased, and the frequent returns of fainting admonished the attendants of approaching death. Yet even then his faith and patience grew stronger: “Weep not for me,” said he; “this last hour has no terror to me. My body indeed suffers, but my soul is soothed by His consolations, and I am satisfied to the full.” He then stretched out his finger to the boys, and spoke kindly to them. Having prevailed on them to go to an adjoining room to take some food, “My meat,” said he, “is to do the will of God and finish my course.”
At midnight he called his wife, and took a cheerful farewell. “I go to my Father and your father. All shall be well. Amen, amen. Farewell, my son; farewell, dearest niece: fear not, I have prayed for you. I am ready. Come, Lord; I pant, I hope, I knock. Open, open, Lord, to thy poor afflicted servant.” After this, he was not able to speak, except a few words. At eight o’clock in the morning of Saturday, the 7th of January, the change of his countenance, and convulsive fits which he underwent, gave warning of a speedy dissolution. His friends, who were around his bed, continued, according to his former request, to suggest consolatory passages of Scripture, and to put up short petitions for him, to which he answered by a single word, expressive of his confidence and hope. “O great God, send Thy Spirit of consolation into his heart. He is come,” answered he. “Let him take the whole armour of God.” “I have it.” “Give him the crown of righteousness.” “He will.” After a short prayer, during which he remained with his eyes fixed, and his hands lifted up, one of the company said, “I think he is now rejoicing in the vision of God,” to which he attempted to answer “Oui” (yes), and almost at the same moment gently expired.
I would press this upon you by the way (O! Christians of this generation), forget your perfections and remember your imperfections; have a holy oblivion of your attainments, but have a divine remembrance of your shortcomings: look more to what is before unperfected than what is behind, and thus shall you evidence true justifying faith.
—Andrew Gray.