then not to excite the boisterous laugh, but pleasant smile;
something you would treasure in your memory to be called
up when you were disposed to be sad. Your grandfather
and he were fast friends, and the bonds which united them
in life were severed only in death. He was mourned for by
my father, not as lost, but gone before. Oh, is not that re-
ligion worth one anxious inquiry which keeps us cheerful
202 (pDafter ^uhrx^ M^^i&orx.
and happy amidst the turmoils and ills of life, its cares and
sorrow? What can riches purchase in comparison with that
peace of mind which is the good man's inheritance?"
" In the year 1846 his youngest son, William Meade, mar-
ried a Miss Girault, of Natchez, a very lovely woman, and
soon after went to housekeeping in Baltimore. His father
and mother went to live with him, taking with them their
adopted daughter, but my father always continued his an-
nual visits to me. My wife loved him with great tenderness,
which was warmly reciprocated, and these visits were a
source of great gratification to her. Children were his de-
light. I ever thought he loved them because our Saviour
' took them in his arms and blessed them.' As we have be-
fore said, teaching was a passion with him, and no child ever
knew him but to love him. I carved letters on a shingle,
and with them he taught my children the alphabet. They
were hardly ever too young to begin with. He would com-
mence with ' this is your hand, this is your nose, this is your
chin,' and so on, touching the part. With what glee would
they come every morning to say the old lesson and learn the
new! They knew the hour, for he was very methodical and
would never allow one duty to interfere with another. He
rose early always, and after a careful toilet and his private
devotions, he had a habit of taking several glasses of water.
After breakfast and prayers came the children's hour. He
then returned to his closet, and at twelve took his walk. As
he preferred to walk alone, I had white stones placed at
intervals to guide his steps, as he could distinguish them in
the bright sunshine and it gave him pleasure. Then came a
simple lunch of fruit, and he retired again to his room until
(r)ufnu5 Opemque ^^vo. 203
dinner; after which we enjoyed his conversation on the
porch with the family around him, then another hour of re-
tirement, another walk at sunset, supper, and conversation
again till bedtime. So passed his well-ordered, peaceful and
happy life. No convent rule could have been more syste-
matic. It seemed to me his life was spent in prayers and
praise; at least so much of it as was not employed in the
duties he owed his family and his fellow-men. How many
thousand times, when he thought himself alone, have I
seen his lips move in prayer, knowing this from his manner.
He was exceedingly gentle in his manner and kind to every
one. My brother William mentions his ' quick temper,'
with a view to show how completely he was influenced by
that religion which it was his happiness to inculcate. In-
deed, he often himself asserted that it had been his chief
difficulty in life; but had we not been told by our father
himself we could not have imagined that the angry passions
ever ruffled his bosom, but that an eternal calm held entire
possession and governed his every thought. I do not re-
member that I ever heard him give way to one unkind or
harsh expression. Should not that religion excite our ad-
miration and love that gives such mastery over our passions
and which brings into the same fold the lion and the lamb?
Always cheerful, though stricken with years and bearing
many infirmities, blindness among the number, grace now
fully abounded and controlled his every action. His tem-
per was unruffled, when under its natural impulses it would
have been tempest-tossed. His appetites were as much un-
der his control as his passion; his only intemperance was in
cold water; the tumbler was the last thing at night and the
204 QJJafter ®ufan^ ilb^teon.
first thing in the morning and at frequent intervals through-
out the day. I sometimes feared it would injure him, but
the habit was incurable and seemed to strengthen with his
years. I have seen him drain the glass to the very last drop
and then his lips would move in thanksgiving."
(Perhaps old Herbert's words were in his thoughts:
" Not that we may not here taste of the cheer,
But as birds drink and straight lift up the head,
So let us sip, and think of better drink
We may attain to after we are dead.")
" I have now given you the outlines of your grandfather's
life from lisping childhood to tottering age, and as we trace
his life through each gradation we ever find him toiling in
the vineyard of the Lord. Now as a youth on shipboard,
with kind words and religious books endeavoring to comfort
a poor sailor. Again we see him in the humble cottages of
the poor, elevating hope and giving comfort in the hour of
death by the assurances of Holy Writ. At another time he
is striving to prevent the shedding of blood, and for that
purpose following parties to the duelling ground. We. see
him by the wayside, striving still to do good, returning from
his daily toils with a heart teeming with love for his fellow-
men, and overflowing with gratitude to God for His infinite
mercies, and when stricken with blindness and poor, bless-
ing his Maker that He had spared his hearing and given him
shelter for his head.
" Your grandfather, my children, considered riches a
blessing or a curse ; a blessing when they were used tempor-
arily to supply our wants and comforts and when they
(PuCnu0 ^ptm(\ut ^tvo. 205
afforded us the opportunity of helping the needy. Further
-than this, he esteemed them worse than dross. Had he
been as most men, studious of gain, he might have looked
from his window on well-stored garners and left his children
rich. But think you that these things would have calmed
his last moments, or eased a dying pang, or given the peace
and cheerfulness which filled his heart while reason re-
mained? No, certainly not. He was impulsive by nature,
quick, irascible, as was acknowledged by himself. What a
beautiful commentary is this upon our holy religion, that
from such elements could come so much meekness and hu-
mility, so much that was lovely and lovable."
"It has been pleasant to follow him step by step in life;
now, at the close, we must brush away the tears and follow
him yet a step further, and then my pen will have completed
its task."
CHAPTER XVIL
THE END.
" Then came forth a summons for Mr. Standfast, and the Post brought
it to him open in his hand ; the contents whereof were, that he must
prepare for a change, for his Master was not willing that he should be
so far from Him any longer." — Pilgrim'' s Progress.
•>
"â– ^.
'HE particulars of this holy man's last illness and
^^) death are given in a letter to the Rev. Mr. Allen
by his son, William â– Meade Addison. Mr. Allen
had himself visited him a few days before his
death and thus writes: " Mr. Addison was a man of the most
unwavering faith. His confidence in God was the anchor of his
soul. We shall never forget his beautiful and impressive
words in a conversation with him just before his death.
Speaking of the faith exhibited by one of our old bishops,
he quoted the words: ' If ye have faith as a grain of mustard
seed, ye shall remove mountains.' ' Yes,' said he, * as a
grain of mustard seed,' how small the cause; ' Mountains of
difficulty,' how wonderful the results!"
The letter of Mr. Addison above referred to is in the fol-
lowing words:
Baltimore, Feb. 20th, 1848.
Rev. and Dear Sir :
As you have requested me, and I promised, I now give
you some account of the last illness of my father. On the
^6e 6n^. 207
morning of October 19th, 1847, he had a very remarkable
dream, which he regarded as an admonition of approaching
death ; some weeks elapsed and we began to see that he was
failing in strength — he was an early riser and generally in
the breakfast room in advance of the hour for prayers; he
was observed to get down later than usual, although he rose
earlier than formerly, and at last it became necessary for his
convenience to postpone the breakfast hour. He had now
become so feeble that we were obliged to assist him from
his knees, but he still preserved all his usual cheerfulness.
In a few wrecks more he had given up family worship in the
morning and remained in his own room, until the afternoon.
His failure was now very rapid, though he had no pain and
made no complaint. He knew his end was approaching,
and advanced to meet it with a composure which showed he
was about to enter a scene for which he was prepared. There
was no hurry or excitement, no abstraction, no separation
of himself from his family. He might be compared to one
going on an important journey, to which he had been look-
ing forward for a long time and for which he had made
every preparation. There was no change in his manner
indicating that he had anything to do which all his life he
had not been doing; the task had not been neglected until
the evening-time warned the laborer that the hours of work
were drawing to a close and double exertions were to be
made to repair the idleness of the morning. The morning
had witnessed the sweat of his brow, noon saw him at his
toil, and evening found him still calmly at his labor. What I
wish to convey to you is the composure of mind of this man
of God; while there was no ecstasy on the one hand, there
2o8 (^af^ev ©ufanj il^^ieom
was no fear on the other, but such a seriousness of deport-
ment as became a man who felt he was a pardoned sinner
going to receive mercy, not reward, which well became the
man who, when asked a few davs before his death if he relied
on the merits of his own works for salvation, replied, " They
are not worth a straw; my only hope is in the merits and
blood of Christ, through whom alone (laying his hand on his
heart) my peace is made with God." Several times in his last
days he laid his hand on his heart, and said, " All is peace
here with God and man."
About twenty days before his death his illness took an
acute form, and till his death he suffered agony the most
intense, borne with resignation the most perfect; no mur-
mur escaped his lips, not even a groan. Until the day pre-
ceding his death he retained his faculties unimpaired. In-
deed, towards the last his mind seemed to invigorate, and
never shall I forget his deathbed sermon to a young friend a
day or two before his death. He told her what was often
mistaken for religion, but was not religion, and warned her
against a mistake on that point. Then he told what religion
was, its rewards and the proof that we have it. He then con-
cluded with beseeching her to shun the fashionable amuse-
ments of the time, as destructive to the growth of genuine
piety. That was a day or two before his death, and proba-
bly occupied fifteen or twenty minutes, and was pronounced
with earnestness and with a strength of voice which surprised
us all. His whole heart was in his discourse, and he did not
cease till his voice died away to a whisper. I thought then
I had never heard so much compressed in so small a com-
pass. I think so still. I never stood by a Christian's death-
ZU (Bnb. 209
bed till then, or heard a sermon from a dying man. The
occasion can never be forgotten by any who were present.
In reply to a question put by Dr. Wyatt, with a view to dis-
cover if he was willing to depart, he answered, " Thy will be
done, whether it be to live or die." On another occasion he
replied the same thing, and said he did not permit himself to
have any wish on the subject. His watchword through life
was " Thy will be done," not merely that, but that " Thy will
may be my will." He was suffering great pain, and the
question was put, " Though you are willing to die, are you
willing to live in your present suflferings for years?" There
was no answer. I could not rest in doubt, and the ques-
tion was repeated. After a short pause, in which he seemed
to be questioning and cross-questioning his heart, he replied
with equal, if not greater, emphasis than before, " In that
case I still say ' Thy will be done.' " He repeatedly en-
deavored to prepare us for the bereavement his death would
occasion, by urging every consideration which could .recon-
cile us to his departure, and with the utmost composure
designated the spot which he had selected 40 years before
for his burial. In the summer of 1847 ^e told me that as
the time of his death approached he felt like the patriarchs of
old, who had their bodies deposited where their forefathers
slept, " and when I die," said he, " bury me at Oxon Hill."
He was blind for twenty-one years, and being a student from
his boyhood, you can imagine that his loss was the greater
on that account. I never heard him murmur at his loss; on
the contrary, he delighted in expatiating on the blessings
that were left him. Only a few days before his death he
repeatedly said, " I have had a hundred bright days for one
2IO (JOafter <3}uPan^ iltbieon.
dark one." I never saw any display of temper but once, and
that was years ag-o, and then the flash in his eye was Uke
heaven's electricity — the lightning flash which we see on the
horizon without rumbling or sound ; not a word was spoken,
and in an instant all was quiet and serene. He was believed
to be a man of great gentleness of temper. This was a mis-
take; his temper was naturally quick. By grace he con-
quered it. I should suppose he was naturally disposed to
husband his means; by grace he threw with both hands his
bread upon the water. It returned to him in this life ten-
fold in the form of contentment and unfaltering reliance upon
Providence, and it will return to him a thousandfold here-
after. Though chastised by almost every form of affliction,
I never saw him dejected; though blind and almost helpless,
I never saw him idle. His labors were as regular as those
of the plowman who goes to his work for his daily bread.
The mornings were mostly spent in sacred reading; to hours
thus consecrated he was indebted for his extensive know-
ledge of Holy Scripture and of the poets who have sung on
sacred themes. A few days before his death, the sole rem-
nant of his fortune, consisting of a very few books, was dis -
tributed among his friends. They were, so to speak, the
armor of a wornout warrior whose warfare was over. Here
was the first Prayer Book he ever owned, then his first Testa-
ment, there were Watts, and Bunyan, Milton, and his favorite
Young, and a few Latin and Greek books — the companions
of hours not devoted to sacred duties and pleasures.
He breathed his last on Sunday morning, January 31st,
1848, in one and the same moment a suffering sinner here
and a glorified saint there." At the request of the Rev.
Dr. Wyatt, his remains were carried to Old St. Paul's when
the services of the day were over, and laid in front of the chan-
cel. At a late hour my uncle visited the church, and as he
entered the dimly lighted aisle he saw the venerable figure of
the Rector standing- beside the cofhn. He had come to bid
a last farewell to his aged friend and brother. The next
morning a sorrowful little company followed him to his last
resting-place beside the wife of his youth.
From a beautiful tribute to his memory, written by an
unknown hand for the '* Southern Churchman," I copy the
following: "According to his wish, he was buried at Oxon
Hill, the home of his youth, where his ancestors have been
laid to rest before him. There he now lies beneath the aged
trees which had perhaps shaded his childish sports, almost
within sound of the gentle, murmuring Potomac. If in that
unseen country where the spirits of just men made perfect
await their final reward, the tie of kindred blood unites still
more closely souls already congenial in Christ, and is recog-
nized, as we are glad to believe most probable, it is pleasant
to think of a meeting between two so lovely and pleasant in
their lives, who did so much good, each in his own appointed
way, as Joseph Addison the writer and Walter Addison the
Christian minister.
" Behold fast streaming from the tree,
His all-atoning blood :
Is this the Infinite ? 'Tis He :
My Saviour and my God.
For me these pangs His soul assail,
For me this death is borne,
My sins gave sharpness to the nail,
And pointed every thorn."
212 (Rafter ^xxhn^ ilbbteon.
" Thus with a sincerity that none can doubt wrote
Joseph Addison, 'the most poHshed essayist, the most
scholarly critic, the most genial, delicate humorist of his
time ' ; and the spirit of the verses we have quoted, breathing
in lovely humility through the whole life of another Addison
(who more than a century later reflected no less honor on the
name) was such as must draw soul to soul, when, freed from
bodily pain and toil, beyond the shores of Time, they meet
and know each other."
This pleasant association of the name of Joseph Addison
with that of the subject of this little memoir suggests a com-
parison between these two men, in most respects so unlike,
and yet possessing some qualities in common.
Great modesty and calmness, wifh a natural cheerfulness
of temperament, were striking characteristics of them both.
Though in a different measure, both were devout men, " full
of love and awe of Him who made them, and of kindliness
and goodwill to all His creatures." Both led beneficent
lives, though the influence of one was almost world-wide,
while that of the other was circumscribed by narrower
bounds. They were both eminently successful men, for
each attained in a remarkable degree the aim for which he
lived; but the aims were different, and a more striking con-
trast can scarcely be imagined than between the career of
Joseph Addison, the brilliant man of the World, on whom
society lavished its honors and rewards, for whom, says
Thackeray, "all the laurels of Europe were scarcely sufifi-
cient," and Walter Addison, the man of God, asking nothing
of the World and receiving nothing, desiring neither its ad-
miration nor its applause. Zealously and diligently fulfilling
Z^c 6ni. 213
the duties of his holy calHng as long as he was permitted to
exercise it, and then giving himself to the cultivation of
those difficult and despised virtues of Patience, Humility,
Meekness and Self-denial. Often misunderstood, and only
thoroughly appreciated by those most nearly associated with
him, yet it seems to me that this life, if we measure it by the
noblest standard ever presented to human aspiration, was
assuredly the nearest to that ideal. Perhaps no one would
have been more ready to acknowledge this than Joseph Ad-
dison himself in his later days. They had different gifts,
and different missions were assigned to them.
The one mingled freely with the world, accepting all that it
had to offer, yet without being corrupted by it; on the con-
trary, exerting a purifying influence on the society in which
he moved and on the literature of his country, the effect of
which is felt to-day wherever the English tongue is known.
The other let go all that was his, that he might lay hold
more firmly on eternal life, finding, according to our Lord's
own words, ** Manifold more in this present life, and in the
world to come life everlasting." He sought and attained the
true " secret of a happy life," that life which is so near to us
all and is yet found by so few, a secret which enabled him to
say when the storms of a long life were ending, " I have had
a hundred bright days for one dark one." " Bright," surely
not with earthly brightness, but with the light of God's
countenance shining upon him.
With regret I feel that my task is ended ; but a friend has
sent me a tribute to his worth by Bishop Whittingham,
which was read before the Convention of 1848 and preserved
by her. It will, I think, be an appropriate ending to this
little memorial of a good man's life.
214 (JDaftcr ©ufanp il^bteon.
Extract frcnn Bishop W hitting ham s address to the
Convention, June ist, 1848.
Brethren of the Clergy and Laity :
" We meet not again this year as last with the number of
those who labor in the word and doctrine undiminished.
Thankfulness for that blessing is to be exchanged for a
higher privilege — the recognition of mercy displayed to a
venerable departed brother throughout a long life of faithful
obedience, and in a consistent death, calmly peaceful, in the
full assurance of a religious and holy life.
Our late senior Presbyter, the Rev. Walter Dulany Addi-
son, has been taken from us, full of days and of the fruits of
faith. Among the first, if not the very first, admitted to Holy
Orders by the first Bishop of this diocese, his continuance
with us was a link of the present to the pasi which we could
ill afford to lose. Although for some years past unable to
be present with us in the body, he was never absent from us
in spirit on these annually recurring occasions ot assemblage
to take counsel together for the work of the Lord. His
prayers co-operated with the efforts of his brethren to pre-
serve the peace and purity of the household of faith, to keep
men in the good old paths in which the fathers trod, and to
bring to the blessed unity of the Spirit those whom ignor-
ance, prejudice or error had led astray, or sin was making
willing captives of the enemy. A more earnest, faithful
laborer in the holy cause we never had, so long as he was
permitted to fulfil the active duties of the ministry ; and when
his Master suffered the infirmities of age to disqualify him
for those toils, as warm a heart as ever, still beat true to the
Zic enb. 215
claims of the Lord's own heritage on his love and care.
Childlike simplicity of faith and love characterized him in all
the many vicissitudes of his long career. He was eminently
single-hearted. Long may his example of Godly sincerity
and quietness be remembered among us and taken as a
model. Long may the fragrance of his name continue to
refresh us."
FINIS.
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PHOTOCOPY
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(%%\ s^ 77