THE cold beams of a December morning were stealing through the windows of the sick chamber, making manifest that the yet colder shades of death were fast sewing on the brow of the young disciple, as he lay supported by one whom God had given in the place of her He had taken to be with Himself, and to whom he now turned with confiding affection, saying, “Tell me, dear mamma, is this death?” The tone, the countenance, the oppressed breathing, left her but one reply—she gave it; for need of concealment there was none, and it added no pang.
Scarcely thirteen summers had passed over a form more than usually attractive, and but a short time before sporting in all the buoyancy of youth; but now here he lay, “the flower faded, the grace of the fashion of it falling away.” Come near, ye who have never seen death, nor thought on the moment when you may find his iron grasp, upon your frame. Look on that form; listen to the tones of calm and quiet confidence which fall from those lips; and say, are you acquainted with Him who can thus “make the bed of death soft as downy pillows are?” or would that moment find you alone? alone in your last extremity I Can any thought be more appalling, save that which follows, “After death the judgment”? The subject of this brief sketch was the child of many prayers. A dying mother had commended him, with her other children, to the grace and faithfulness of Him who has said, “Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son.” Richly have her faith and prayers been rewarded, which, in his case, she may now know with unmingled joy, while those bereaved can, while sorrowing, give thanks that the manifestation of God’s grace in him was not delayed till a dying hour.
The commencement of the work of God in the soul of H. S. is dated as far back as the spring of 1856. At that time the Lord was working among the young people in the house, reviving the hearts of some who made a profession of His name, and awakening others to a sense of their condition as lost sinners. This spread to the younger children, who frequently met together for reading the Scriptures, conversation, and sometimes prayer. On other occasions they were assembled for the same purpose by those who watched over them. Dear Henry was always found in this little company. He expressed his deep sense of sin, fear of punishment, and a desire for God’s mercy. This continued for some time, until, on a certain Sunday in May, after having attended the usual services of the day, he mentioned to a young friend his assurance of God’s pardoning love. An entry found in his diary says, “On this day I found peace with God.” When questioned on the subject, he expressed a calm and quiet confidence that the blood of Jesus had cleansed him from all his sins. His words were few, and his parents chose rather to see the grace of God in him, than to elicit expressions of it from his lips. This was more agreeable to his retired habits, and also dislike of attracting attention to himself.
They were encouraged, from time to time, by seeing the unmistakable fruits of the Spirit, in the gentleness and meekness, which took the place of the naturally lofty mien, and cold deportment: integrity and truthfulness also, under the wise and gracious discipline of a father’s hand, ruled in a heart, where once were seen those sad traces of our corrupt nature spoken of in Psalm 58:33The wicked are estranged from the womb: they go astray as soon as they be born, speaking lies. (Psalm 58:3).
Mr. and Mrs. S. fully recognized the value and importance of the Scriptures being accurately committed to memory; also of the youthful mind being well stored with hymns. Dear Henry’s favorite was the following well-known one from the Olney Hymns, which to his dying hour he called, “My hymn” —
In evil long I took delight,
Unaw’d by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopp’d my wild career.
I saw One hanging on a tree,
In agonies and blood;
Who bird His languid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.
Sure never to my latest breath,
Can I forget that look;
It seem’d to charge me with His death,
Though not a word He spoke.
My conscience felt and own’d the guilt,
And plung’d me in despair;
I saw my sins His blood had spilled,
And help’d to nail Him there.
Alas, I knew not what I did,
But now my tears are vain;
Where shall my trembling soul be hid
For I the Lord have slain.
A second look He gave, which said,
I freely all forgive!
This blood is for thy ransom paid,
I die that thou mayst live.
Thus while His death my sin displays,
In all its blackest hue;
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too.
With pleasing grief and mournful joy,
My spirit now is filled;
That I should such a life destroy,
Yet live by Him I kill’d.
During the summer of 1856 he accompanied his elder sisters on a visit to some friends in Devonshire. A Christian relative was desired to watch over him, with special reference to the work of grace in his soul. She did so, and expressed herself perfectly satisfied with the reality of the work, and he simplicity of his walk.
The following letter, written at this time (bearing date, July 14th, 1856), was found after his death, never having been delivered. It is addressed to one of his companions, who, it appears, had spoken to him of some religious impressions.
After thanking her for a little book, &c., he says, “Do you really think you believe, dear M—? Do you love prayer alone with God? and can you call Him Father? if so, you have the joy; but if not, yours will be a bitter part. Remember, you have professed to be a Christian, and if you do not serve the Lord in all you do, dear M., remember this, you do everything to the honor or to the dishonor of the Lord I hope yours is a true profession. Your conduct, temper, and love will show.
“I hope you will come back really ready for work; for the Lord says, ‘Be not slothful in business,’ and ‘Love ye one another.’ These are precious words, but now we will change the subject.” He then speaks of his anticipated visit to Devonshire, before alluded to.
In the September following he left his home for the first time for school, pleased with the thought of mingling with boys of his own age. His parents had waited much on God for guidance, and now felt happy in placing him with Mr. T., of Taunton, in whose godly care and discipline they had confidence. The number of pupils was limited; many of them were young, and among them also God had worked. Some were inquiring for salvation, and others, having found it, were rejoicing in God’s mercy. Among these dear Henry cast in his lot, joining their meetings for prayer and reading the Scriptures. His frequent letters at this time breathed increasing affection for his family, and often conveyed to his anxious, friends the assurance, that he was neither forgetting the Lord nor neglecting His word.
He returned home at the Christmas vacation, and his parents were glad to find from Mr. T. that his conduct at school had thrown no cloud on his Christian profession. But he was evidently not in good health, and though uncomplaining, the pallor of his countenance made him the object of solicitude. On this ground he was refused attending the evening meetings, which he had been accustomed to enjoy. He therefore frequently spent this time in the company of a relative, also in delicate health, who was visiting in the house. She says that on these occasions he would draw her chair near the fire, and invite her to “talk nicely,” the theme being Jesus and his love.
About the middle of January, 1857, his mamma was one evening reading the 10th chapter of John with him and his younger sisters. They gave ready replies as to the general bearing of the chapter, but it was dear Henry’s to tell what was meant by “hearing the shepherd’s voice.” He spoke of it as being the Lord’s voice in the word and the Spirit’s voice in the heart. So evident was it to these little ones that he possessed a knowledge they had not, that one of them artlessly said, “But, Henry, you don’t mean that you have heard Jesus speaking to you from heaven!”
On another occasion, towards the close of January, as he was spending a Lord’s-day evening with his mamma, his papa being gone to preach the Gospel at some distance, she took the opportunity of questioning him concerning his hope. He gave simple and unreserved replies; referred to the Sunday in May when his heart was relieved from the burden that had oppressed it; for a sense of his sins, his untruthfulness, and pride, seemed to have been deeply impressed on his mind. “I always liked,” he said, “to hear dear papa preach; but on that Sunday I had been especially interested, and when I went to bed I knelt down, and told the Lord what a sinner I was, and asked Him to forgive me, and wash me in His blood. He did, and I felt quite happy.” Sweet and simple faith! which only God’s Spirit could plant in a soil so corrupt, dark, and distrustful of Him as the human heart. He afterward asked his mamma to pray with him; and on her saying she should like him to pray also with her, if he felt quite free to do so, he followed, pouring out his heart with childlike simplicity, thanking the Lord for taking away his sins, and earnestly desiring to live nearer to Him. “Lamb of God,” he said, “I often come to Thy cross, but then I go away attain; help me to keep near!” Surely we have need to make the same confession and request! He then remembered his papa, prayed that God would help him in preaching, and bring him home in safety.
A little incident that occurred at this time, but which did not come to the knowledge of his parents till after his death, may perhaps be introduced, as showing that though naturally silent and retiring, the grace of God did at times give him a confidence beyond, his years. He was one day sent on a message to a carpenter’s shop in the village. As he entered, one of the workmen engaged in making a coffin used some improper expressions. Henry turned to him, and said, “I wonder you can use such language, employed as you are.” This producing no effect, he continued, “Take care: you do not know how soon a coffin may be needed for you.” He then went on to speak of death, judgment, and salvation by Jesus, asked the man where he went on Sundays; and concluded by saying, “I advise you to come and hear my papa preach the gospel.” These words were afresh remembered by those who heard them, when, ere another year had run its course, on the same spot a coffin was provided for dear Henry.
How old art thou? How many years
Of thy short life are past?
Another comes,—hast thou no fears
That this may prove thy last?
God spares thee yet another year,
But soon may cut thee down:
Oh, sinner, learn in time to fear
The terror of His frown.
This day, before the Saviour fall,
This day is thine alone;
Whate’er thine age, thou cant not call
Another day thine own.
The continued delicacy of his appearance, though he still complained of nothing, induced his parents to consult their medical man; and by his advice they retained him at home until March, when he again returned to Taunton.
During this period he gave a proof of the natural pride and haughtiness of his spirit. Having been gently reproved by his mamma for some slight irregularity of conduct, he avoided for two successive nights giving her the accustomed kiss. A little appeal being made to his heart on the subject, he followed her to her room, and with many tears entreated her forgiveness, confessing how proud and haughty he had been for the last two days, telling her he had “tried, but had not been able to conquer himself.” She read Mattew 11 with him, dwelling particularly on the meekness and lowliness of Jesus presented in the 29th verse. This appeared through grace to have made a lasting impression on his heart, for, some weeks afterward, he alluded to it, saying, “I have prayed against my pride every day, and don’t think I have been so tempted to it since.” He thus proved that he knew something of the plague of his own heart, and the way of deliverance from its power.
In April his parents went to see him, and as his appearance still caused them some anxiety, they consulted Dr. B., who, after a careful examination, gave it as his opinion, that his apparent delicacy, want of vigor, and slowness of growth, were attributable to disease in the vessels connected with the heart, which had most probably attended him from his birth. This intelligence was as unexpected as it was afflictive. They would at once have brought him home; but, as he was then suffering also from cold, it was not considered prudent to run the risk of exposure to the air, which at that time was keen and piercing. Knowing he had kind friends and attentive nurses around him, they thought it better to allow him to remain until midsummer, receiving frequent, and sometimes more favorable, accounts of his health.
During the midsummer vacation his parents took him to Weymouth for the benefit of sea air. While there they consulted Dr. M., who hoped the symptoms might be merely sympathetic, and advised some simple baths, &c., which, with the change, appeared greatly to renovate his frame, and he returned home apparently in much better health. He had enjoyed the pleasures of the seashore with as much zest as other children, and nothing remarkable was observed in him, save his habit of privately reading the Scriptures; nothing ever induced him to leave his room in the morning without spending some little time over his Bible.
The heat being at this time excessive, Henry did not again return to school until the end of August. It is remarkable that only the day before his return to Taunton, his life was in imminent danger from an attack made on him by a horse. As he was passing through a field, his great fondness for horses led him playfully to stroke a young colt; which so enraged the mother, that she seized him with her teeth, threw him violently on the ground, and appeared to those who witnessed it to be trampling him under her feet; but, as if by a miracle, he escaped unhurt. God had given his angels charge concerning him; he was preserved in this how of peril to glorify Him in another, at no very distant period. To this escape he often alluded as a signal mercy from the hand of God. In September, a friend passing through the town spent a little time with him, and marked with pleasure his improved appearance. His papa also paid him a visit in October, and perceived nothing in his child to cause him any anxiety; nor had his parents anything to awaken their fears until November 30th, when a letter was received from Mr. T., saying that Henry had been poorly for a few days, and requesting to know if they wished Dr. B. to be consulted. Mr. S. left immediately for Taunton. He found Henry complaining of much pain about the heart, which he himself ascribed to the unusual exercise he had taken in some games of play with his companions. Dr. B. was called in he pronounced the symptoms of his heart disease to have returned, which, being accompanied with severe cold and cough, made it imprudent to remove him immediately, as Mr. S. had intended; so that, committing him to the care of Dr. B. he left, purposing to return for him in a few days. This decision was some little disappointment to dear Henry, but he sweetly submitted. He had indeed the habit of subjecting his feelings to his judgment, in a remarkable degree for one so young.
There is something to be observed in this detention, as, the same night his papa left Taunton, the infant child of Mr. T., then in good health, was seized with an epileptic fit, and expired before the morning light. Thus was this dear child allowed to remain in the very presence of death, doubtless that his young heart might receive some new lesson through the. Lord’s teaching.
On Tuesday, December 8th Mr. S. brought dear Henry home. He bore the journey well, and appeared much gratified to find himself once more in the bosom of his family; but his altered appearance, oppressed breathing, and restless nights, made all around him anxious. Sometimes the painful symptoms would subside in measure; and on one of those days (Friday 11th) he walked out, viewed the garden, looked at the horse, &c., and took a general interest in things around him. On the same evening, Mr. H., the family surgeon, saw him, and again on Tuesday the 15th, when he expressed a fear that water would accumulate in the system, of which there were some slight indications, and gave a decided opinion that sooner or later the disease must terminate fatally. He was asked anxiously if he apprehended sudden death, his papa having on that day gone some distance from home, to fulfill an important engagement connected with the Lord’s service, which would detain him until the following day. Mr. H. allayed this anxiety by saying he expected a more protracted period of suffering.
In the evening of this day, his sister M— took her tea with him. He complained of much pain; she remarked, “It is but a little while.” “Oh,” he replied, “the little while seems very long.” She read to him the 15th chapter of John’s gospel. He listened attentively, and said, “It is very short; read the next;” she did so, and soon after he was carried upstairs. Whilst being undressed, he remarked there was some improvement in his symptoms—that his breathing was relieved, his appetite better, and he hoped he might go out the next day. On being reminded of his increased weakness, he replied, “Yes, that’s true; but then it’s because I don’t go out.” Thus exhibiting a feeling not unfrequently found in more advanced believers, who, when the sands of life are nearly run, appear ready to believe it otherwise.
When he had rested awhile, his sister A— read to him the little memoir of “Samuel Palmer,” an interesting record of the last few days of a young disciple, and took occasion from it to ask if he were quite happy. He replied, “Yes, quite happy.” “If God were to take, you tonight,” she continued, “are you quite sure you would be with Jesus?” He replied, “Yes, quite sure.” He had, in like manner, on the previous day, expressed his confidence to his papa, who inquired the ground of it. He answered, “Christ died for me.” “But why,” said Mr. S., “was the death of Christ needful for you?” “Because,” was the unhesitating reply, “without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins.” This night, the faithful servant who had watched over him, needing rest, a Christian friend and relative passed the night in his room. He was restless, and more than once remarked, “If God does not soon relieve my heart, my weak frame cannot hold out long.”
In the morning he expressed a wish to rise earlier than usual; so that, soon after breakfast, Mrs. S. made preparations for dressing him. He asked her to wipe the cold perspiration from his forehead; she did so, and perceiving he had increased difficulty in breathing, prevailed on him to remain in bed. He again spoke of not “holding out long;” and asked her if she thought he could. In reply, she told him plainly the little hope she had of his recovery, and her fear that more suffering might yet await him. He then said, touchingly, “Well, I must bear it patiently.” His tone and manner were so affecting, that she turned aside to wipe her tears, when he said, “Dear mamma, don’t weep for me; I can’t bear to see you cry.” She then asked him affectionately, whether, if it should please God to take him, his papa, herself, and his sisters, might feel assured he was with Jesus. He turned with a grieved look towards her, and said; “Mamma, why do you doubt it? you may be quite sure I am on the true foundation, Christ Jesus.” She then replied, “Well, my dear, I will not question you anymore; but seek to use the remainder of your time in cultivating intimacy with Jesus; seek to be well acquainted with Him before you go home to be with Him.” She then left him for a few minutes, when his sister M—, taking her place by his bedside, read to him the 17 and part of the 18 of John. While listening, the pain increased, and he then said, “It’s all over, M—; it’s all up with me—I can’t hold out much longer.” Then a slight paroxysm seized him. Mrs. S. returned at this moment, and perceived the stamp of death fixed on his countenance. She gave him some cordial, which relieved in a slight degree his oppressed breathing, and as she supported him in her arms, he asked her the touching question with which this narrative was commenced, “Tell me, dear mamma, is this death?”
Then followed a scene, to portray which we would seek the pen of truth, and not the pencil of the artist. Suffice it to say, it surprised those who best knew him, and seemed as if the hidden energies of a life were gathered into that dying hour; but it manifests the reality of Divine grace, and by it, he being dead, yet speaketh.
Hearing the clock strike, he inquired the hour, saying, “How long do you think I may remain?” Being answered, “Not many hours,” he replied, “Not one, I hope.”
His breathing now became more difficult, and he exclaimed with effort, “Oh, my breath, come back once more!” Then turning to the servant who had waited on him, he thanked her for all her attentions, saying, “You have been very kind to me.”
He then desired his love, and a message of thanks to “grandmamma” for all her kindness to him. The sobs of the little ones who had gathered around his bed appeared to distress him, and they were sent away. At this moment a friend of the family, well known to dear Henry, entered the room, and seeing his altered countenance, drew back a little, but he perceived her, and called out, “Miss K., one kiss, one last kiss, quick!” As she bent over him, he said, “Good-bye, I am going to Jesus.”
Swiftly the shadows of death gathered around that suffering form; the pulse almost ceased to beat, the hands, the breath, grew icy cold; so that to send for medical aid (being three miles from the town) or to summon his papa, seemed alike useless.
At intervals, while gasping for breath, he would say, “Don’t think of me, think of Jesus; don’t weep for me, look to Jesus.” We checked, as far as we could, our tears, expecting each sigh to be the last; but again he spoke, in clear, distinct tones, “Lord Jesus, take me to Thyself.” His mamma said, “My dear, you feel yourself nothing but a poor sinner, don’t you?” He replied, with an earnestness that threatened to exhaust him, “A wretched, vile sinner—but I’m washed—in that—you know—” his breath failing, she added, “Yes, dear, in the precious blood of Jesus.” He nodded assent. Then again opening his eyes, he said, “I am going to heaven; my own mamma is there—I shall see her—and you, and dear papa—and my sisters—I hope the little ones will come too.” This being assented to, he said, “You used to doubt me when I said I was a Christian.” His mamma replied, “No, dear, not doubt exactly; but you know love is anxious, and we wished to be fully satisfied.” He then called on one of his companions by name, saying, “C. M., my dear child, you must look to Jesus.” Then after a pause, during which he called for frequent drafts of water, he said, “My time is nearly come;” his mamma answered, “God has fixed the happy day;” he added quickly, “the hour the minute, the second.” Then again, “My life is nearly gone.” On one occasion, as his mamma was concluding a passage of Scripture commenced by himself, he said hastily, “Oh, don’t speak!” Then the next moment, putting his hand apologizingly on his chest, said, “Pain, pain,” then turned to kiss her, as if to atone for the interruption. He next thought of his little possessions; gave his desk to his sister A—, his purse to M—, desired his playthings might be divided among the little ones; then added, “and my horse (meaning a favorite plaything of past days) I give to Franky while he lives; after that, to my little brother Theodore, then to be broken in pieces; and give,” he said, as if remembering everything that had interested him, “give the old horse a handful of beans for me.” He then inquired for the cook; she was sent for, but not coining immediately another message was dispatched, when he, with characteristic thoughtfulness, said, “Never mind; perhaps it will spoil your dinner.” When she appeared, he addressed her with, “Ah, R—, you won’t cook another dinner for me!” Then correcting himself, he added, “you may not.”
On another occasion, calling piteously for his papa, as indeed he had frequently done, his mamma asked if he had anything to say to him. He replied, “No, only tell him I am gone to be with Jesus.” She then added, “You know, dear, papa did not think of your being worse, and he is gone to serve Jesus; for nothing else would he have left you.” He replied sweetly, “Papa is gone to serve Jesus, and I am going to live with Him.”
As there now seemed a possibility that his life might be prolonged some hours, a telegraphic message was sent for his papa; but there was some delay in its delivery. God had ordered it, and the afflicted father returned to find only the lifeless remains of his beloved child.
After this he asked for “little Franky.” He came; Henry looked lovingly upon him, and said, “Give me one kiss, one last kiss, quick!” Then added, “My little brother, you must look to Jesus; remember it is my wish, my dying wish.” Seeing the little ones at the foot of the bed, he continued, “And you, too, my dear little sisters, look to Jesus.” Turning to his mamma, he said, “You must lead them to Jesus.” “Yes,” she replied; and addressing them said, “You hear what your brother says; but, my dears, I can’t lead you, unless you are willing to come.” “No,” he emphatically answered, “but you must preach the gospel to them.”
He then turned again to his little brother, and said, “I want Franky to smile upon me.” It was a hard thing for the child at such a moment; he looked as if he understood neither the scene nor the request. It may perhaps be observed, as a proof of the earnest care God had put into his heart for the souls of these little ones, that in their presence he did not mention his playthings.
After a few moments of acute suffering, he looked around on each one, saying, “Abide in love;” then stretching out his hands, and with beaming countenance, as if he beheld something that we saw not, he exclaimed, “Come on! come on!” Then, one sweet smile on her who still supported him—a short struggle—and his spirit passed into regions of Eternal Day. “Absent from the body, present with the Lord!”
His remains were sown in hope, on Tuesday, the 22nd of December.
Christians from distant parts met over the remains of the young disciple, when praises and thanksgivings ascended to God for all the grace and mercy bestowed on him. Words of comfort were also spoken to the bereaved, from John 11, and they found sympathy in the tears of Jesus; while the words, “I am the resurrection and the life,” reminded them that “where Jesus was, there could not be death.” Mary and Martha said truly, “Lord, if Thou hadst been here my brother had not died.” Jesus had been here; our departed one was not dead; that which lay before us was not death—it was sleep—sleep in Jesus—soon, very soon, to be broken by the voice of the archangel and the trump of God, when “the dead in Christ shall rise first; then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air; so shall we ever be with the Lord.” Truly we comforted one another with these words, so that when the remains were lowered into the grave, we were able, though with tears, to sing the following hymn:
Forever With the Lord.
THE Lord Himself shall come,
And shout a quick’ning word,
Thousands shall answer from the tomb,
“Forever with the Lord!”
Then as we upward fly,
That resurrection word
Shall be our shout of victory,
“Forever with the Lord!”
How shall I meet those eyes?
Mine—on Himself I cast,
And own myself the Saviour’s prize;
Mercy from first to last.
“Knowing as I am known,”
How shall I love that word,
How oft repeat before the Throne,
“Forever with the Lord!”
That resurrection word,
That shout of victory
Once more, “forever with the Lord!”
Amen—so let it be.