38

THE DYING PASTOR.

"The truths he had maintained so long

Were his support in death."

ANON.

I HAVE often been struck with the dignity and moral grandeur with which religion invests its real votaries. The poorest Christian is not only raised from a lost and ruined condition as a rebel against God, adopted into his family, made a partaker of present enjoyments, and possessed of a prospect of eternal glory, but there is a something about him which proclaims to all, that "the righteous is more excellent than his neighbour." Cowper has truly and sweetly sung

"Honour and happiness unite

To make the Christian's name a praise!
How fair the scene, how clear the light,
That fills the remnant of his days!"

But it is, perhaps, on a dying bed that the Christian shews most fully the dignity of his character. When the world retires, unable to give pleasure or support, when friends weep

because they cannot soothe themselves or the object of their love with the hopes of life, and when deception, if it has been indulged, can be cherished no longer, then the power of the religion of Jesus, and the dignity of the Christian, is seen and felt, and every spectator exclaims,

"A Christian is the highest style of man!"

I have been led to these reflections by contemplating a chasm which death has lately made in my list of friends, and by indulging the melancholy and yet pleasing recollection of the last interview I enjoyed with him, which was but about seventeen days before his death. The reader will perhaps allow me to say a few words in reference to the character of my friend, and then to state the particulars of his removal.

The holy man to whose memory these pages are dedicated, had sustained the office of a Christian Pastor over a large and interesting village congregation for about five and thirty years. Amidst many affecting domestic trials and bereavements, he was ever favoured with

a large measure of scriptural consolation, of ministerial success, and of the liveliest affection and esteem of his people. Without entering into the particulars of his life, I may be suffered to remark that there were three things in his character which at once demanded admiration and imitation. The first was his unaffected pioty. This conspicuously marked his conduct. in every relation he filled, and in every duty be pastormed. It shone in his sermons, it heathed, blended with a chastened cheerfulness, in ve vorengoedence, but was most eminent sobie conversations. Every one felt in his company that be was “a holy man of God. Que could not be favoured with his society, exen for a few minutes, without receiving pious Bar and adopting hole resolutions. And yet there was nothing of eat, ee of vis mismuose, plout him: al was simpleny Bummilliy, and moodness.

No man was dr more animent than my des same food “Oy Tubilty. Hlu know "NIT THE BAC }{ 'is He over seine o levi unsaid u “İne presence & Me Wuster he served, and was

afraid to displease him. He felt that the souls of men were too valuable for him to neglect their interests, even though in the prosecution of his duties he should give offence. He dared to reprove sin, to exhibit the truth, and to point out the path of duty, fearless of the conAnd he had his reward even here, sequences. for he was universally beloved for this trait of his character; and his admonitions were ever regarded as coming from a man who possessed authority.

But the most striking feature in the character of my beloved friend was his holy affection. This was always seen, and it endeared him to every class of persons with whom he associated. The aged regarded him as a brother, those in middle life venerated him as one of their best friends, and the young looked upon him with an esteem as ardent, and still more holy and pure than that with which they regarded their parents. His love subdued everything unhappy among his flock, and if any man died without an enemy it was he. But I am departing from the path I had

marked out for myself; which was, to describe my last interview with him, and to sketch his dying experience. It was, as I have already said, about seventeen days before the death of my friend that I last saw him. I went at his request to occupy his pulpit, and administer to his sorrowing people some degree of spiritual consolation, while enduring the trial which was about to separate them and their pastor for ever. Arrived at his house, I found him exceedingly low and exhausted. His body had lost its native vigour, his limbs were deprived of their flesh, his cheeks were sunken, his appetite and his strength were gone, and he appeared to be what he called himself—a dying man. But O! there was a benignity beamed in his eye, and a serenity rested on his countenance which no human being could represent. He was near to an eternal world,—but it was a world of happiness, and he seemed already to enjoy it. I asked him the state of his mind; his reply was delightfully emphatic :-" No language can describe half the happiness which I feel." I prayed with him, and was engaged