The London Missionary Society 2

Next Part The London Missionary Society 3

II. </strong>We now turn to another and a far more delightful view of the subject. We leave the tombs of the prophets, and leave the scenes of desolation which their death has occasioned—to consider what there is, and how much, which, when these instruments are removed, survives the wreck of mortality, and perpetuates itself through the time to come.

It was the proud boast of Horace, "I shall not all die, much of me will escape death;" and it has proved true. Of all his country's poets, he is the one most delighted in by the English scholar, whether on an upper form at school, or in the evening of a busy life. He is still without an equal either as the lyrist of gentlemanly life, or as the moralist man of the world. But under how much higher and holier an inspiration might the immortal Carey, after he had thrown off from his burning soul that noble scintillation of his zeal, "Expect great things, attempt great things!" or Bogue, after he had written his appeal which founded the Missionary Society, have laid down his pen, and in the spirit of prophecy echoed the words of the poet, Non omnis moriar! Let us then consider what remains of these men.

1. Not only their graves—but their own immortal selves, their deathless spirits still survive. We profess no such unscriptural, unphilosophical tenet; no such gloomy and cheerless dogma that the soul lies entombed with the body amid corruption, earth, and worms. We believe, with the apostle, that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord; and that we are already come to the spirits of just men made perfect. It is then the language neither of mournful ignorance nor faltering scepticism which asks the question, "Where are they?" With that volume in our hand which lights us through the dark passage of the tomb with the lamp of inspiration, and exhibits to us the splendors of immortality blazing at the farther end, we are at no loss about their present state.

My brethren, you have perhaps visited that venerable place which contains the ashes of the mighty dead of England, and as you have paced the aisles of Westminster Abbey, have been filled with pensive awe as English history has stood out before you in those marble tombstones of such exquisite and varied forms which crowd upon your view in that trophy-house of death.

"Here," you have said to yourself, "are the memorials of monarchs who swayed the scepter and ruled the destinies of this great empire, of statesmen who guided its affairs, of orators whose eloquence moved and influenced its parliaments, of patriots who achieved its liberties, of heroes who fought its battles, and of historians who have worthily commemorated its glories. Here are the monuments of poets who fascinated by the creations of their genius and the melody of their numbers, of philosophers who advanced our science, of scholars who enriched our literature, of inventors who by their inventions multiplied our comforts and increased our wealth; and of the sculptors who have placed these all but living forms of beauty and majesty before us. Here are their names and their deeds spread out before us in this palace of death and renown in all the glory which could be conferred by the carver's chisel or the scholar's praise."

But what world do their spirits now inhabit? Where are they? Where, oh! where? What holy and sensitive imagination does not seem to hear bursting from many a statue of inexpressible beauty the sad lament of Wolsey on his downfall—"Oh that I had served my God as I have served my king!" What have these mighty men done for God and his cause? How many of their hearts beat loyally and truly with love to Christ? How few of them ever dreamt of entwining the wreath of their fame round his cross! Where are they? How befitting to many of them, so far as regards their eternal state, would be the plain and simple slab in the cloisters of Worcester Cathedral which covers the ashes of some unnamed, unknown man, bearing only the gloomy mystery contained in that one word, miserrimus, "most miserable!"

But now drop these melancholy musings, and pass from Westminster Abbey to Bunhill Fields, or to the missionary's grave in some far-off land. No architectural grandeur raises its lofty arches there; no sculptor's chisel exhibits there the trophies and the triumphs of his art; no stained window tints with all the colors of the rainbow the tombs of the men who rest from their labors there, nor organ's solemn peal, nor white-robed choristers chant their requiem. No! But there are the tombs of the men whom God delights to honor, or the records of their doings. No stream of earthly visitors is ever flowing to those spots; but angels come down and join with holy men to look with interest upon the graves, read with delight their records, and say with reverent whisper to each other, "Here is the resting-place of Bunyan, here of Owen, and here of Watts. Here sleeps the holy Baxter, and there the serene and lofty Howe. Here are the names of Bogue and Burder, of Wilks and Waugh. Here is the sepulcher of Schwartz or Carey, Martyn or Morrison; and here is the spot, without a grave, where fell the martyr Williams."

And while we survey these memorials, no creeping horror chills the blood, no agonized specters rise before our terrified imagination, as we ask the question, "Where are they?" Every name is radiant with the light and glory of immortality—every tomb is vocal with the echoes of inspiration, and to the question of the text responds, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them." There they are, assembled in the presence of their Lord, rejoicing with ineffable delight in their mutual recognition, in their sublime fellowship, and in their joint adoration.

2. Their names, their character, and their examples still survive. These have not perished, should not perish, cannot, shall not! Eminent piety, combined with eminent usefulness, retains, like the rose, its beauty and its fragrance after death. The Egyptians, with a strange fondness, embalmed and preserved the bodies of their departed friends. With more rational and profitable care, let us preserve, by embalming, the character of our departed godly friends. Could we arrest the disembodied spirit of one of our heaven-bound friends, when it had thrown off the last taint of corruption, and was clad in the spotless garment of the immortals, and could we hold daily fellowship with it, and catch the inspirations to holiness and zeal which such elevated communion would impart—how powerful an auxiliary to our spiritual improvement would we have gained!

"Forgive, blessed friend, the tributary tear,
That mourned your exit from a world like this;
Forgive the wish that would have kept you here,
And stopped your passage to the realms of bliss."

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