IN a letter to a friend named Mills, Berridge wrote in October 1788, “Solomon’s account of old age suits me well. The windows are dark; the daughters of music are low, the grinders cease, for all are gone; and the grasshopper is a burden. Well, thanks to God through Jesus Christ for the prospect of a better world.”
In May 1792, he wrote to a young lady: “Once more I am paying a corresponding visit to you and others, expecting it to be my last, on account of my eyes, which I are growing so dim, that I can read but little of what I love dearly, the precious Word of God... I am very feeble in body, but as well as I should be, and must suffer my heavenly Physician to prescribe for me.”
To another he writes in August of that year: “You ask me how I do? Eyes very dim, ears deaf, head much shattered, and spirits very low, yet much exempt from pain. Here my Jesus shows His tenderness.”
These and similar passages show that Berridge’s health was breaking up. The psalmist says, “The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet it their strength labour and sorrow.” The truth of this Berridge was proving. He was now about seventy-six years of age and he had spent a life of hard work.
His weakness of course greatly limited his physical ability for work, and gradually his preaching tours through the country had to be abandoned; but to the end he retained his interest in the work of the gospel. At last he was reduced to preaching once on the Sunday at Everton. “Twenty-one good meals,” he exclaims, “and only one sermon. But I live upon a King’s bounty.”
But though his outward man was perishing, his inward man was renewed day by day. Like fruit which ripened in the beams of the sun, his soul became mellowed in divine things, and the fervent love which he bore to Christ ever since he knew Him became deeper. “When shall I see His face?” was an exclamation often upon his lips. His last letters show his deepening attachment to Christ, his Master. To the young lady before referred to he writes, “I see nothing worth knowing but Jesus Christ and Him crucified, for Him to know is life eternal. Follow Him at all times, and let your heart dance after Him, as David danced after the ark. And when He comes into your bosom, hold Him fast, and turn all other company out. He loves to be alone with His bride. You may find Him in the shop, or in the street, if you seek Him there; and often whisper in His ear, ‘Jesus, come and bless me.’ If He sometimes surprises us with His visit, and comes unexpectedly, yet He loves to see the doors open, and the bosom waiting for Him. Many kind visits are lost through a gadding heart; therefore keep at home with the Lord and let Him hear much of your loving talk, and tell Him all your wants, and all your grievances, and cast all your care upon Him, and hide nothing from Him. Lean firmly upon Him, and He will cheer your heart in every trying hour, and bring you safe at last to His eternal home, where sin and sorrow never come, but where joy and peace forever dwell.”
After Berridge’s sight began to fail, a friend asked him if, now that he was deprived of his books, he did not find his hours rather gloomy? “No,” said he, “blessed be my God, I can yet read a little, though but a little; when I rise in the morning I go to my Master, and tell Him what I shall want for the day; I then read as long as I can, and afterward I talk to my Master the rest of the morning, and then my Master talks to me the rest of the day, and how should I be gloomy?”
Truly, “He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and I will love him, and will manifest Myself to him!”
In January 1793, Berridge purposed to visit London, as he usually did in the winter time. But on the very morning fixed for his departure, serious symptoms showed themselves, pointing to the putting off of his earthly tabernacle. “A general languor ensued; his appetite totally failed, and his strength rapidly and visibly decreased.” On Sunday, the 20th January, he went downstairs as usual, but was exceedingly weak, and had great difficulty in reaching his bedroom in the evening. Ill as he was, he was extremely cheerful. To a friend he said, “I thought my Master would have called me home yesterday, but I must wait His time.” A few hours later still more serious signs were developed, and it was evident to all who saw him that his departure was near at hand.
It was a wonderful testimony to the sustaining grace and power of Christ at a time when flesh and heart fail. Imagine the poor old man, nearly blind, deaf, dying without wife or child, brother or sister, kith or kin to speak one word of natural comfort or consolation, yet not cast down. A friend who had visited him some time in 1792 afterward wrote, “We were much affected by his commending himself to the Lord, as quite alone, not able to read or hear, or do anything. But he said, ‘Lord, if I have Thy presence and love, that sufficeth.’”
That “presence and love” he enjoyed, and therefore his mind was quiet and peaceful, not a fear cast its cloud upon him. And now his speech was failing, and all that he could do was to refer with gratitude to “the rich support he experienced in the prospect of eternity.” The excellency and preciousness of Christ, the sure foundation laid by God, much impressed him, and he once exclaimed with emphasis, “What should I do now, if I had no better foundation to rest upon than what Dr. Priestley points out?”
On Tuesday, the 22nd, the final stroke came. His face was contracted, he lost all power in part of his body, and almost all power of articulation. His curate, Whittingham, said to him, “Sir, the Lord has enabled you to fight a good fight, and to finish a truly glorious course.”
His answer was, “Blessed be His holy name for it.”
“Jesus will soon call you up higher.”
“Ay, ay, ay,” replied the dying man, “higher, higher, higher!” A little later he exclaimed, “Yes, and my children too will shout and sing, ‘Here comes our father!’”
This was all; a few moments more, and he was with the Lord. W. J.