Letter to Mr. Babington
Bishop Chase’s Answer to Bishop Bowen.
London. May 22nd 1824.
Right Rev. and Dear Brother,
It is not in my power to write you an answer worthy of the letter which your kindness dictated on occasion of the death of my dear Son. It is so full of Charity & the unction of divine of Heavenly consolation, drawn by the hand of friendship from that fountain of mercy to our dying word, our Holy Religion, that I cannot find terms in which to frame a suitable reply. All I can say unto you is that I have read your letter over many times & as often thanked God that he had provided such an asylum for my poor Son in his last & greatest need, as that of your City, your friendship & that of the house & home of good Mrs. Rutledge.
My son’s life was short; but it was as dear to me as it was short. He grew up as a flower in the garden of the Lord, —the Church which he so much loved. The storms beat upon his tender head — & he bowed meekly to all their fury. He is now cut down by the hand of death & the fragrance of his holy life is all that remaineth of one, who was the joy of my heart & the solace of my woese. It is the Lord — let him do what seemeth to him good. Nature feels the stroke; but the balm of our holy faith heals the wound.
To say that I mourn not would not be true. I have shed more tears on this occasion that on any other: but they are not for him, but for myself. Alone, in a foreign land, my best deeds misinterpreted by those whom I ever respected, & who should be my friends. Struggling to obtain means to augment the number of Christ’s faithful Ministers, lest his Church perish in the west, & yet called to mourn over the death of two out of seven Clergyman, on whom under God, I had relied for assistance in the great work before me, & one of them my Son: & such a Son too — whose very example was a continual Sermon, persuading to Holiness more powerfully that all my own endeavours! For these things I mourn, & mine eyes gush out with tears: but, thank God, complaint & despair are far from me. On the black Cloud which surrounds me, God paints his Promises in bright & vivid colours. He saith to me, “O tarry there the Lord’s leisure — be strong & he shall comfort thine heart: Just [then] thy trust in the Lord.”
“I will deliver thee out of the hand of the wicked; & I will redeem thee out of the horrid of the terrible.” The same Sun of righteousness, whose glory is thus reflected from the Cloud of adversity in the language of Promise, cheers my heart with the warmth of his Grace, & my very Soul praises God for the refreshments which came down from the cloud over the Mercy Seat even in Storms.
On your goodness dear Brother, I will further rely, for making my most grateful [sentences] known to all who noticed & contributed to the comfort of my deceased Son. For their loving kindness in this respect, they must wait for a better reward than I can give them; even for that which passeth understanding, which God alone can render. To Mr. Rutledge, & his Mother, & all in that excellent family, do mention me as in an especial manner, grateful. What would I give to be permitted to pour forth into their bosoms, what I feel in my own: [Hae] assurances of the most Christian regards. When I shall return to my dear People in Ohio, I know not: — but hope it may be in the course of the Summer, or first fall Month. Bishop Hobart, before he went to Rome, had withdrawn his apposition, & put forth a separate subscription for N. York & Connecticut. But the Pamphlet entitled the “New York Presbyter” has appeared in great numbers, & torn up the wound afresh. As from the first I shall continue silent. Ever faithfully and gratefully, your Brother,
Philander Chase
In my writing desk I brought from America a few of my letters to Bp. White. These I shewed to Bp. Hobart’s own friends in hopes of a peaceful understanding. BP. Hobart had published his “Notes” before I cam to London and before he could have known of the letter to Bp. White. Dates will bring the truth to light sooner or later.
Description
Bishop Chase tells of a recent portrait made of him, though he refuses, to avoid vanity, to have another one made.
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