It was 170 years ago today that the 8th President of Princeton University, Ashbel Green (July 6, 1762 - May 19, 1848) passed on to glory. He wrote an autobiography of his fascinating life, which was edited and completed by his friend Joseph Huntington Jones (1797-1868).
The closing scenes of this remarkable life are worthy of remembrance on this day:
"The decline of Dr. Green was not attended with any positive disease which accelerated his death. Though every menacing symptom was watched by his most assiduous and skilful medical friend, who did much to retard his downward progress, yet the tendencies of more than four score years and five were not to be resisted by any power in the art of healing; and it was evident to all who saw him, that the time of his departure was at hand. How far the change from day to day was alarming to himself, or even perceptible, or what were his mental exercises, could be inferred only from the usual composure of his manner, and placid countenance, indicative of the movements of a mind engaged in meditations of interest and solemnity. To the questions often addressed to him on coming to his bedside, 'How do you feel?' 'what is the state of your mind?' his most frequent answer was, 'tolerable.' Indeed, this appeared to be almost the only word that he could speak, which was to some extent descriptive of his feelings. So long as he was able to articulate with so much distinctness as to be understood, he requested every clerical friend who entered the room to pray with him. To the remarks and quotations of the Scriptures by his brethren or others, he would usually give his assent by a motion of his lips or head, and sometimes by the utterance of a single word. When in one of these interviews, a brother remarked in the language of the apostle Peter, 'Unto you therefore, who believe, he is precious,' he promptly responded, 'Yes, precious Christ, precious Christ, precious Christ,' repeating it three times with the strongest emphasis. On another occasion, when we recited the well known hymn of Watts,
'How can I sink with such a prop
As my eternal God,'
the last two stanzas seemed to present a severe but faithful test of Christian attainment; but, said he, 'I try to say them.' At another time, when we repeated a favourite hymn by the same author, concluding with the stanza,
'A guilty, weak and helpless worm,
On thy kind arms I fall;
Be thou my strength and righteousness,
My Jesus and my all,'
he exclaimed, 'beautiful.' His wakeful hours at night, which were many, were spent in devotion. Several months before his decease, a member of the family was wakened at midnight by a noise in his room, like the sobbings of a person that was weeping. On going to the door and gently opening it, he was found with his eyes closed and lips moving, as if speaking in whispers with the greatest earnestness, while his cheeks and pillow were wet with his tears. When asked in the morning without any allusion to what we have mentioned, how he had slept, he answered, that 'he had had a precious night in communion with his Saviour.' One of the most interesting and impressive scenes of his last days occurred on the Sabbath but one before his death. After the family had returned from the morning service, it was observed on entering his room, that his mind was burdened with meditations, to which he wished to give utterance, and that his emotions were producing a restlessness and agitation that were inexplicable and alarming. To the inquiries of his ever watchful friend, what was the cause of his disquiet, and what she should do to relieve him, he appeared to be unable to give any verbal reply; when it occurred to her that she would suggest the reading of the Scriptures, to which he readily assented. The portion to which she turned was the first chapter of the Gospel of John, and finding that he became tranquil and attentive, she read deliberately to the close. The sixteenth verse, 'And of his fulness have we all received, and grace for grace,' was a passage of peculiar interest to him, and appeared to produce a flood of touching reminiscences. Several years ago, when confined to his chamber by sickness, he had composed three sermons on this text, which he afterwards preached to the edification of his whole congregation, and to the special benefit of several persons who received from them their permanent religious impressions. The reading of this chapter not only allayed that distressing nervous excitement which preceded it, but seemed to impart a sort of inspiration by which his faculties were for the time emancipated: his tongue was loosed, and he burst out into an ecstasy of joy and thanksgiving; 'blessing God for the gift of his Son and the gospel, which contained the record of his coming, life, crucifixion, resurrection, and intercession. That he had been permitted to preach this gospel, and had been honoured with any measure of success in his ministry. For the comforts which the gospel had imparted to him, and the ineffably glorious hopes it had inspired of a state of sinless perfection beyond the grave.' His voice was loud, his enunciation clear and distinct as it had been in the best days of his ministry; and this elevated strain of praise and holy exultation was continued until his strength was exhausted, and he sunk into a sweet and refreshing sleep. The scene was indescribably impressive and solemn. No person that did not see it, can imagine the majesty of the preacher and the power of his utterance, scarcely more unexpected than if he had spoken from the coffin, in which his dust was to be laid before the return of a second Sabbath. It seemed to be a momentary triumph of grace over the infirmities of expiring nature, a taking leave of mortality and the labours of his militant state, like the dying effort of Jacob; after which the Patriarch 'gathered up his feet into the bed and yielded up the ghost.' With this brief eucharistic service, his communion with earthly things ceased. From the time of this affecting occurrence his change was rapid and obvious to all. His difficulty in speaking was so great that he did not make the effort, but remained silent with his eyes closed, except when opened to signify to some inquirer his consciousness and understanding of the question, which he had not the power to answer. The occasional motion of his lips and lifting of his hands and clasping them upon his breast, were indications that his thoughts were absorbed in the exercises of meditation and prayer.
As his strength diminished there were intervals more and more prolonged of sleep, when these tokens of his thoughts were suspended. There seemed to be no bodily suffering nor mental disquiet, but a peaceful waiting for the release of his spirit, which at last was called away so gently, that the moment of its escape was not perceived even by those who were watching to see it. At the hour of six in the morning of the 19th of May, 1848, he was lying in his usual position, his face upward, arms extended, and hands clasped as if engaged in prayer, when one of his hands became detached from the other and fell at his side; the other remained elevated a moment or two longer, when it began to sink gradually until it nearly reached the body, when its muscular strength failed and it suddenly dropped. At the same instant the motion of his lips ceased, and it was discovered that he had ceased to breathe. Such were the closing scenes of his loner and useful life, and some of the circumstances that attended it. Had it been prolonged until the 6th of July, he would have completed his 88th year. Thus he came to his 'grave in a full aire, like as a shock of corn cometh in in his season'" (The Life of Ashbel Green, V.D.M., pp. 496-500).