CHAPTER XXVII.

DEATH.

"To die, is to go home."- HANSCOM.

THERE is ever a melancholy interest in the death of Christians, especially in the death of ministers of the Gospel, which is shared, to a greater or less extent, by all who have known them in life. Standing before the world as the avowed representatives of that faith which divests death of its terrors and the grave of its gloom, and encouraging others by their lessons to rise superior to all fear, to all painful apprehensions of the future, it is but reasonable that those who have listened to their instructions, and been animated by the spirit which these instructions were calculated to inspire, should feel a desire to know how they bore themselves as they approached the dark valley—in that hour when the scenes of earth receding from the mental eye, and the events of ETERNITY casting "their shadows before," fill the soul with the profoundest awe. Philosophers, of the stamp characterized by the Psalmist as "fools in their hearts," speak flippantly of death, as one of the incidents of existence here, and would fain have us believe that it is the necessary termination of "life's feverish dream." Some Christians who have repudiated the darker suggestions of supersti

tion, suggestions which point to death as the limit of probation, the gate to immortal weal or immortal woe,– are too prone to represent this last change known to mortals as a leap from gloom to glory, from earth to heaven. They do more than rob it of its terrors; they divest it of its solemnities. In their horror of one extreme, they rush into another scarcely less objectionable in all its moral or religious bearings. In teaching men to scorn the "fear of death" as unworthy, they verge to the weakness which makes it a light and trivial thing to die.

But a wiser philosophy, drawn from the experience of the world and permeated with the spirit of the Gospel, points to the closing scene in the life of Christ, as suggestive of the true idea of death. There is no lightness in his manner. The conflict is before him, and he feels his need of strength to secure him the victory. He would avoid it "if possible;" but, if he must engage in it, he would be prepared for the trial by some assurance of the sympathy of his Father. He would have the cup pass from him; but, if he must drink it, he would know that he was thereby doing the will of God. He prays for strength, therefore, for sympathy, for resignation to the Divine will. "And as he prayed there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly."

Such a shrinking from death implies no slavish fear of its agony, or of aught beyond life's last struggle. It is rather the natural expression of a sentiment the love of life — which God has implanted deep in the human

soul.

And whoever properly meditates upon death will not rush upon it in a thoughtless mood, will neither tempt nor court the exercise of its power. He will feel that, though its triumph is the spirit's birth, it is a solemn thing to die. To pause, as it were, in the midst of life, when ambition has been pampered by success, and the future is full of promise; suddenly to abandon the longcherished purposes of the heart at the very moment their realization begins to be certain, and to forego the fruition of hopes which have been counted among the richest blessings of the past; to leave family and friends, all the social endearments of earth, to tread the dark vale alone; to enter into the more immediate presence of Him who endowed the soul with all its faculties, and justly claims, in his service, the exercise of all its powers, and in the light of his glory, of his perfections, to awake in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, to a consciousness of spiritual needs which God has seen and Jesus has deplored,— who is sufficient for these things? Who, suddenly warned of the approach of death, can say, "Not my will, but thine, be done?"

Mr. Cook appears to have been one of the few to whom the announcement of a speedy death brought no alarm. Though, from my earliest recollections of him, he regarded death with the most solemn awe, he was not terrified by its approach. For his family he would live and labor. For the cause of Christ he would defer his journey home. But, when summoned by the voice of the Father to his presence, no murmur escaped his lips. A thousand plans to be executed on earth had been devised; plans for the education of his children, for the advancement of the truth,

for his own personal comfort, and for the blessing of others. But the future, which had hitherto stretched out through many years, suddenly dwindled down to a moment which separated him from death; and yet he indulged no impious complaint that time was too short. He improved that moment, crowded with physical suffering which no words can adequately represent, for the benefit of his family and friends, and for deepening his sympathies with the Great Source of spiritual life.

While in Providence, in April, 1850, on a visit, his son Edgar had a severe attack of lung fever. Partially recovering from this, he was taken in June with a bilious remittent fever. For weeks he struggled with this; and when he had so far recovered as to be able to attend school one session each day, and was thought to be improving, he was prostrated again with the dysentery, which very seriously threatened his life. In a letter to the Christian Messenger of New York, dated Aug 1, 1850, he writes:

"The Sabbath-school connected with my society held their annual excursion to-day. This morning, at seven o'clock, about six hundred, men, women and children, assembled at the new dépôt on Calvert-street, and left in the cars for a beautiful grove on the York railroad, about nine miles from the city. Though all faces around me seemed cheerful and happy, yet I went with a reluctant and somewhat heavy heart. This was not usual for me, for I always enjoy such occasions exceedingly. But my eldest son, who had a course of the lung fever while we were in Providence last spring, and who has had a severe turn of bilious remittent fever since our return, was at

tacked last Monday week with dysentery. Since Friday last, he has been very sick; for three days his case was doubtful, but yesterday a change took place for the better; to-day he continues to improve slowly, with every evidence of recovery. We have had a beautiful day for our excursion. About half-past one o'clock, however, a little shower, which lasted probably ten minutes, passed over the grove, and served to remind us all of the impressive moral lesson of Christ upon the divine impartiality, 'God sendeth the rain upon the just and the unjust.' It alarmed more than it injured, and it was amusing to see what a 'right smart' race for the long train of cars, left for convenience' sake, it occasioned. In a few minutes the sun laughingly peeped through the clouds again, and invited us back into Nature's temple, to engage with devotion in our amusements and pleasure-worship. The invitation. was no sooner given than obeyed and accepted, and till six o'clock the time was faithfully occupied and very pleasantly spent. I left the grove at fifteen minutes of two, being uneasy and anxious concerning my child, though when I arrived at home I found him better and improving."

In his watchings by the bedside of this dear child, the anxious father became very much exhausted. A diarrhoea set in, which, though not very alarming in its aspects, tended to a still greater debility of the system, and, doubtless, served to predispose it to the fatal effects of the dysentery. On Saturday, the third of August, he ate his dinner with considerable relish. With other vegetables, he partook somewhat freely of green corn, of which he was very fond. But he soon felt that he had injured