Wesley’s Death
Wesley always insisted on judging religion by the most severely practical tests. Life was one test, and he mistrusted profoundly a religion which did not fill life for its possessor with gladness and strength. But he knew that death, with its mystery and loneliness, was the last and sorest test of religion. Did the religion he preached make that last darkness luminous? Did it put songs on dying lips and gladness in dying hearts? “The world,” wrote Wesley, “may not like our Methodists, but the world cannot deny that they die well,” and the religion which teaches men to die well may surely find in that fact its best credentials. Lecky writes with a touch of genuine human feeling when he recognises this deep and sacred result of the great revival. “Every religion,” he says, “which is worthy of the name must provide some method of consoling men in the first agonies of bereavement, some support in the extremes of pain and sickness, above all, some stay in the hour of death. It must operate, not merely, or mainly, upon the strong and healthy reason, but also in the twilight of the understanding, in the half-lucid intervals that precede death, when the imagination is enfeebled and dislocated, when all the buoyancy and hopefulness of nature is crushed.”
Lecky’s testimony to the value of evangelical doctrine in that last supreme moment, when the soul stands on the borders of eternity, with the sounds of the busy earth growing faint behind, is not, perhaps, marked by very clear insight, but at least it is emphatic.
“The doctrine of justification by faith,” he says, “which diverts the wandering mind from all painful and perplexing retrospect, concentrates the imagination on one Sacred Figure, and persuades the sinner that the sins of a life have, in a moment, been effaced, has enabled thousands to encounter death with perfect calm, or even with vivid joy, and has consoled innumerable mourners at a time when all the commonplaces of philosophy would appear the idlest of sounds.”
The Wesleys themselves, it is quite certain, had the art of dying well. The little, irascible, impatient rector of Epworth himself never wore such an aspect of heoric gladness as in his dying moments. Something of prophetic speech crept to his dying lips. It was as with a ray of sudden vision breaking upon him from the skies of the spiritual world, that he said to John Wesley: “The inward witness, son I the inward witness! — this is the proof, the strongest proof of Christianity.” No prophet of the Old Testament, and no apostle and saint of the New Testament, ever uttered more pregnant words. A strange light of joy burned in the last moments of that troubled life. He was asked, “Are the consolations of God small with you?” “No, no, no,” he whispered, “God chastens me with pain, yea, all my bones with strong pain, but I thank Him for all, I bless Him for all, I love Him for all!” Then as his voice gathered strength he called upon his children who stood round him by name. “Think of heaven! Talk of heaven! All the time is lost when we are not thinking of heaven.”
What could be more characteristic of the serene calm of her spirit than Susannah Wesley’s last words to the children who stood beside her dying bed. John Wesley tells the story: —
“Her look was calm and serene, and her eyes were fixed upward, as the requiem to her departing soul was being sung by her children. It was just four o’clock. She opened her eyes wide, and fixed them upwards for a moment. Then the lids dropped, and the soul was set at liberty, without one struggle, or groan, or sigh. We stood round the bed, and fulfilled her last request, uttered a little before she lost her speech, ‘Children, as soon as I am released, sing a psalm of praise to God.’”
There were many tragedies, as we have seen, in the lives of Wesley’s sisters, but with nearly all of them a strange peace lay on their dying beds. As an example, John Wesley’s account of the last moments of Patty, perhaps not the cleverest, but certainly the gayest, and perhaps the most ill-fated of the Epworth girls, told in an earlier page, may be recalled. She died with a triumphant whisper on her lips: “I have the assurance I have so long wanted. Shout!”
Wesley, himself, lived in such a fierce light of publicity — he was the central object of love and of admiring watchfulness to such multitudes — that across more than a centurj’ we can watch, as though we were actual spectators, the closing scene in his life. The last sentence he recorded in his Cash-book is still preserved: “For upwards of eighty-six years I have kept my accounts exactly: I will not attempt it any longer, being satisfied with the continual conviction that I save all I can and give all I can; that is, all I have.”
That very record — so noble in Spirit — gives pathetic evidence of decaying faculties. The characters are faint, broken, and scarcely legible. His memory, as well as his hand, was failing, for there is a mistake in the number of years given. Time for him had plainly lost its perspective. But the record itself is a true reflex of the spirit in which Wesley lived.
His signature of the minutes of the last Conference at which he was present still remains, and yields evidence yet more striking, that the pen was held by strengthless fingers. The letters run irregularly, and Wesley begins the “W” of his surname on the “n” in John. And yet a fortnight after that broken and trembling signature was written, he conducted in Bristol a service three hours long, and afterwards preached in the open air! He went on, indeed, travelling, preaching, toiling, although he was now an image of utter feebleness.
Henry Crabb Robinson relates in his diary how, in October 1790, four months before Wesley’s death, he heard him preach in the great round meeting-house at Colchester: —
“He stood in a wide pulpit, and on each side of him stood a minister, and the two held him up, having their hands under his armpits. His feeble voice was barely audible, but his reverend countenance, especially his long white locks, formed a picture never to be forgotten. There was a vast crowd of lovers and admirers. It was for the most part a pantomime, but the pantomime went to the heart. Of the kind, I never saw anything comparable to it in after-life.”
Wesley preached his last sermon in the open air at Winchelsea, on October 7, 1790, from the text “The King-WESLEY AND HTS CENTURY
(lorn of Heaven is at hand; rei»ent and believe the Gospel.” He stood under a great tree, with a listening and reverent crowd about him; and when his trembling lips had uttered the benediction, almost the last syllables of the greatest Christian ministry the English race has seen were spoken. And at least a touch of the strange yet familiar power of Wesley’s preaching was in that last open-air sermon. “The tears of the people,” says one who was present, “flowed in torrents.”
The brave, eager spirit within the tired body was, however, still planning new toils. On February 6, Wesley wrote a letter, saying, “On Wednesday, March 17, I purpose, if God permit, to come from Gloucester to Worcester, and on Thursday, 18th, to Stourport.” The letter, by accident, was not sent. Wesley discovered it amongst his papers, three weeks afterwards, and, with a touch of his characteristic method, he endorsed it: “February 28. This morning I found this in my bureau.” These are the last words that Wesley’s pen ever wrote. Two days after he was dead.
Through all these weeks he was conscious that he stood on the threshold of eternity. He closed each service he held with that fine verse of one of his brother’s hymns: —
“0 that without a lingering groan
I may the welcome word receive,
My body with my charge lay down,
And cease at once to work and live.”
He had one brief, golden, pathetic counsel with which he ended every interview, and every meeting with his societies. It was the Apostle John’s great message, “Little children, love one another.”
On February 1, 1791, he wrote his last letter to America. His dying message ran: “Declare to all men that the Methodists are one people in all the world, and that it is their full determination so to continue —
“‘Though mountains rise and oceans roll
To sever us in vain.’”
On February 22 he preached his last discourse in City Road Chapel. His very last sermon was preached in a magistrate’s room at Leatherhead, on February 23. The last letter he ever penned was the immortal letter to Wilberforce against slavery.
The best — practically, indeed, the only — account of Wesley’s dying moments is that given by Bessie Ritchie, a much-loved and trusted member of his household, who had been his close companion and attendant for some months. A woman’s vigilant sense, and quick and tender sympathy, unite in her narrative to give us a story of unmatched simplicity and pathos. That story is a record of one of the most perfect triumphs over death, with its mystery and whispering terrors, a human spirit ever achieved.
“Patience and an easy death” was what Charles Wesley prayed for again and again as the last moments drew on; and these he had. But in his dying moments the clear, exultant note of triumph is not very audible. Through his greater brother’s dying accents, however, there runs, clear and deep and loud, the music of triumph. The scene is rich with golden sayings; words which are sometimes a reaffirmation of the great truths he preached in his life, as though the preacher were studying them afresh when set against the great horizons of death. Sometimes they represent sudden gleams of strange vision, such vision as breaks on the dying eyes of God’s saints from unseen worlds. Sometimes these sayings are exultant utterances of pure and simple gladness.
On Friday, February 18, he spent the day in reading and writing, and preached at Chelsea at night from the words, “The king’s business requireth haste”; but he had to pause again and again during his sermon, till his failing voice gathered strength. It was clear on Saturday that fever was kindling in his wasted veins, but still he wrote and read and worked. On Sunday, the 20th, he was unable to preach, and slept for many hours. On Monday he dined at Twickenham. On Tuesday the indomitable old man preached at City Road, and on Wednesday at Leatherhead. “Seek ye the Lord while He may be found,” ran his text. It was the great preacher’s last message.
He visited a trusted friend, Mr. Woolf, at Balham, on Thursday, but on returning to his house at City Road, on Friday, the look on his face, the manner in which he crept with stumbling feet into the house, showed he was stricken. He struggled with difficulty upstairs into his room, and sat down in his chair. Eager Bessie Ritchie would run for refreshments; but Wesley sent every one out of the room, saying he was not to be interrupted for any one, for half-an-hour, “not even if Joseph Bradford came.”
That half -hour of loneliness has a strange pathos about it. Wesley knew’ that earth was ending, that death was near; and the solitary spirit, standing on the edge of eternity, would brook, for the moment, no earthly companionship. He would talk with God alone, as much I alone — and yet as little alone — as Moses on the hilltop in Moab.
Dr. Whitehead, Wesley’s trusted friend and physician, was sent for. “Doctor,” said the dying man, with a pleasant smile, as the physician entered the room, “they are more afraid than hurt.” The next day, however, Joseph Bradford sent a hurried note to each preacher in London. “Mr. Wesley is very ill,” it ran, “pray, pray, pray.” All Saturday Wesley slept, but on Sunday morning he rose, sat in his chair with a cheerful face, drank a cup of tea, and repeated to those about him, with smiling lips, his brother’s verse: —
“Till glad I lay this body down,
Thy servant, Lord, attend;
And, oh, my life of mercy crown
With a triumphant end.”
Speech presently failed him. “Speak to me,” he whispered to those about him. “I cannot speak.” In a little while he gathered strength again. Eight years before, at Bristol, he was ill, and believed himself to be dying, and he then said to his attendant, Joseph Bradford: —
“I have been reflecting on my past life: I have been wandering up and down between fifty and sixty years, endeavouring, in my poor way, to do a little good to my fellow-creatures; and, now It is probable that here are but a few steps between me and death, and what have I to trust to for salvation? I can see nothing which I have done or suffered, that will bear looking at. I have no other plea than this: —
“I the chief of sinners am.
But Jesus died for me.”
And as he sat in his chair, in the house in City Road, his memory went back to that scene. “There is no need,” he whispered, “for more than what I said at Bristol. I said then: —
“I the chief of sinners am.
But Jesus died for me.”
Later in the day, after lying silent for some time, as if meditating, he repeated: “How necessary it is for every one to be on the right foundation,” and once more he recited the lines, his watchword in the dark valley: —
“I the chief of sinners am,
But Jesus died for me.”
He slept for a while, and then awakened, and those in the room heard him say, in a low, distinct voice, “There is no way into the holiest but by the blood of Jesus.” It was as though, consciously drawing near to that “holiest,” he paused for a moment to recall the great and divine act of redemption which constituted his right to enter. All through Wesley’s dying moments, indeed, we can see what is the faith, stripped of all merely secondary truths, which stands the supreme test of the last hour.
On Tuesday, March 1, Wesley was asked if he suffered pain. “No,” he replied, and then broke into singing: —
“All glory to God in the sky,
And peace upon earth be restored.”
He sang two verses of that fine hymn, till his breath failed and his voice was gone. “I want to write,” he whispered. A pen was put into his hand, but the fingers could not hold it. “Let me write for you,” said Bessie Ritchie, “tell me what you wish to say.” “Nothing,” was the reply, “but that God is with us.”
He insisted on getting up, and while they were arranging his clothes his voice came back to him, and he broke out singing with a strength and fulness which astonished those in the room. He could preach no longer, write no longer, think and pray no longer. But he could still sing. His failing voice ran into music as if by some eager and resistless impulse. It was the last verse he had given out in City Road Chapel, the exultant stanza:
“I’ll praise my Maker while I’ve breath.
And when my voice is lost in death
Praise shall employ my nobler powers.
My days of praise shall ne’er be past
While life and thought and being last,
Or immortality endures.”
It was Wesley’s ^wan-song. Presently, as he sat in the chair, he tried to sing again: —
“To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Who sweetly all agree”
and then the trembling voice failed. Panting for breath, he said, “Now we have done, let us go.” He went back to bed, and, lying there, bade those about him pray and praise. He gave composed directions for his funeral, and after lying silent a little, he whispered, with kindling face, “The best of all is, God is with us.” Then, lifting his hand as though to wave it, he cried once more, like a soldier exulting in the moment of victory, “THE BEST OF ALL IS, GOD IS WITH US.” One of the most saintly women of that first generation of Methodists, Hester Ann Rogers, came into the room with her husband. “Who are these?” asked Wesley. “Sir,” said Rogers, “we are come to rejoice with you; you are going to receive your crown.” “It is the Lord’s doing,” answered the dying man, “and marvellous in our eyes.”
All through the night broken accents of praise and adoratio;i fell from his Tips. “The clouds drop fatness,” he said. “The Lord is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge,” “I’ll praise — I’ll praise”
On Wednesday morning, at ten o’clock, while a group of faithful and weeping companions stood round his bed, and Joseph Bradford was in the act of praying, Wesley whispered, “Farewell,” and his spirit passed away. Joseph Bradford, at that moment, was repeating the words, “Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors.” Then those in the room broke into singing: —
“Waiting to receive thy spirit,
Lo, the Saviour stands above.
Shows the purchase of His merit.
Reaches out the crown of love.”
Death is the common, inevitable experience, an experience clouded in mystery, and for the natural spirit dark with vague alarms. It is easy, in some moods, to ignore death; to forget its existence; to face it with recklessness. It is possible to drift into that unknown sea with failing senses and no sign of terror. But to die clear-eyed and glad, as Wesley did; to die with trembling lips breaking into praise, and the undying spirit exultant with triumph; to put to that last and uttermost test of death all the beliefs of life, and find that they are true — who does not envy an experience like this?
The keen, swift, unfaltering logic which Wesley used to defend the teaching and beliefs of his life, is not more triumphant and final than the logic hidden in the peace of his death.