Mr. Fletcher’s wish was to live as he would be likely to wish he had
lived when he came to die, a holy life rather than a triumphant death
being his main object. A Godly life was the way to a happy death, he
stated in one of his sermons; nevertheless, he continued, this rule like
many others might have exceptions, as the partial or entire derangement
of the human machine, or the self-chastisement of a tender conscience on
account of former infidelities might determine.
During the ravages of an infectious fever in the parish he reproved a
portion of his flock who from fear of death refrained from rendering
assistance to the sick and the dying. “Use every precaution prudence can
suggest,” he said, “and meekly but confidently commit yourselves to the
gracious Power in whom you live, and then without fear stand firm to the
calls of duty. . . . For myself, whenever I shall have numbered the days
He may appoint, I shall deem it an additional honour and blessing if He
should appoint me to meet my death while I am engaged in the kind offices
of humanity and mercy.”
Mr. Fletcher may be said to have had his wish, for he was engaged in
visiting the sick and duties of a like kind on the Thursday, (August 4,
1785), from three in the afternoon till nine at night, when on returning
home he found he had taken cold. On Friday and Saturday he suffered from
fever, and on Sunday he began the service apparently with his usual
strength; but he soon faltered. The congregation was alarmed, and Mrs.
Fletcher earnestly entreated him to discontinue a task clearly beyond his
strength. He recovered on the windows being opened, and preached with
remarkable energy and effect. “As soon as he had finished his sermon,”
one of his biographers says, “he walked to the communion-table. Here the
same affecting scene was renewed with additional solemnity. Tears
started from every eye and sighs escaped from every breast, while his
people beheld their minister offering up the last languid remains of a
life that had been lavishly spent in their service. In going through
this last part of his duty he was frequently exhausted, but his spiritual
vigour triumphed over his bodily weakness. At length, after having
struggled through a service of some hours’ continuance, he was supported,
with blessings in his mouth, from the altar to his chamber, where he lay
some time in a swoon, and from whence he never walked into the world
again. Mr. Fletcher’s friends entered so entirely into his devotional
feelings that, they were spared the bitter pang which they would
otherwise have experienced from the reflection that these imprudent
exertions exasperated his disorder, and proved an acceleration of his
death.”
He lingered till the following Sunday, at times greatly edifying his
friends with accounts of his experience. Mr. Cox says:—
“After evening service several of the poor who came from a distance,
and were usually entertained under his roof, lingered about the
house, and at length expressed an earnest desire to be permitted once
more to behold their expiring pastor. Their request was granted.
The door of his chamber was set open, directly opposite to which he
was sitting upright in bed, unaltered in his appearance; and as they
slowly passed along the gallery, one by one, they paused at the door,
with a look of mingled supplication and anguish.
“A few hours after this affecting scene he breathed his last, without
a struggle or a groan. At the moment of his departure Mrs. Fletcher
was kneeling by his side; a domestic, who had attended him with
uncommon assiduity, was seated at his head; and his respected friend,
Mr. Gilpin, was sorrowfully standing near his feet. Uncertain
whether he had actually expired, they pressed near, and hung over his
bed in the attitude of listening attention. His lips had ceased to
move, and his head was gently sinking upon his bosom. They stretched
out their hands: but his warfare was accomplished, and his happy
spirit had taken its everlasting flight. Such was the end of this
eminently holy and laborious servant of God, who entered into rest on
the evening of Sunday, August 14, 1785, in the fifty-sixth year of
his age.
“Mr. Fletcher had frequently expressed an earnest desire that he
might be buried in the plainest manner possible. ‘Let there be no
pomp,’ he would say, ‘no expense, no ceremony, at my funeral. The
coffin of the parish poor will suit me best.’ To these instructions
his affectionate widow religiously adhered. A plain oak coffin, with
a brass plate, conveyed his honoured remains to their long home,
without a pall, pall-bearers, scarf, or hat-band. But two thousand
of his parishioners followed him to the grave, who manifested by all
the signs of unaffected sorrow their affliction for their irreparable
loss.”