The Life And Death Of William Tiptaft

Gospel Standard 1864:

William Tiptaft, Of Abingdon

William Tiptaft died at Abingdon, August 17^th, 1864, aged 61.

A warm and general desire having been expressed by many who knew and loved my late dear friend and brother, William Tiptaft, that a little Memoir of him should be published, embracing a longer account of his life and death than could be comprised within the limits of an Obituary, and the execution of that task devolving by their wishes on me, I find myself placed in a strait. On the one hand, I feel that I must not and cannot decline the labour of love thus allotted me, especially as it falls in with my own wishes that some more full and abiding memorial should be raised of one so much esteemed and greatly beloved by the living family of God than our scanty and fleeting pages can afford; and as I was intimately acquainted with him for more than 35 years, I shall feel a solemn pleasure in rearing, as far as the Lord may enable me, this last tribute of affection to his name and memory, which I shall ever hold dear.

But, on the other hand, there is such a general desire among the churches of truth that some account of his last days on earth should appear without delay, that I know it would be a great disappointment were it deferred until the completion of the Memoir, which might and probably would require several months to bring out.

Under these circumstances, I have thought it best to make a compromise, not between truth and error, not between the spirit and the flesh, which my dear departed friend would have abhorred and cried out against with all his soul, but between the present and the future, between a Memoir and an Obituary; and to insert in the present No. a short account of his illness and death, with the mention of a few such other circumstances as would not only be interesting in themselves, but would throw some light on the last days which he spent on earth. The Memoir, if I am spared and enabled to execute it, will contain some account of his early days, of that remarkable period of his life when, in the providence of God, he was brought into the neighbourhood of Abingdon, of his secession from the National Establishment, and his building a chapel in that town out of his own substance, and many other particulars which I need not here enumerate. All this detail, which will, I trust, be interesting and edifying in a Memoir, would be out of place in an Obituary.

His illness was so widely known, and its eventual issue so generally expected by those who personally knew him, that very many of our readers must have been prepared to hear of his removal from this scene of sin and sorrow before the tidings reached their ears. The last letter which he wrote to me I inserted in the September No., not then, indeed, anticipating his being so soon called away, as I had not seen him for more than two months, and therefore was not an eye-witness of his increasing decline, nor did he speak of it in his letters. But the words kept following me with respect to the blessing to his soul there so sweetly related so much so, indeed, that I was all but putting them at the head of the letter, “Anointed for the burial.” Thus, though the tidings of his death came upon me with a great shock, I could not but feel thankful, after my first emotions subsided, for that merciful stroke which cut short his sufferings and carried his ransomed soul into the fulness of eternal joy.

But before I proceed any further I will give a brief account of his last illness. The disease of which he died was an abscess, which gathered internally in the right side of the throat, accompanied by a malignant ulcer seated on one of the vocal cords, as they are called, that is, just in the very spot where the voice is formed, at the top of the windpipe. The complaint being out of sight, and coming on slowly and insidiously, there was for some time no suspicion of its real nature, or apprehension of its dangerous character; but it had been observed by his friends and hearers for some months previous to the commencement of 1863 that he looked ill and broken in health, and that his once clear and powerful voice had become weak and hoarse. He still, however, persevered in his ministerial labours; and his chest having been for so many years healthy and strong, he exposed himself as freely as he had done before to damp and cold after preaching, walking home sometimes through mist and fog for near three miles, after attending a prayer-meeting in a small room, at a village near Abingdon. He evidently was himself for some time not aware of the nature or danger of his complaint, but thought it was a common hoarseness, which would in due time pass off, like an ordinary cold. Nor could he bring himself to the thought that he should suspend or even diminish his ministerial labours, in which he had been so much favoured and blessed. He still, therefore, with his usual readiness and self-denial, accepted invitations from various churches where he had been before to preach, though it was evident to his friends and hearers that the hoarseness of his voice increased instead of being diminished. Still he persevered in his labours, as the glory of God and the good of his people were to him dearer than his own comfort or even health and life; preaching sometimes, when he went out among the churches, five times in the week, besides twice on the Lord’s day. He preached at Abingdon, to his own beloved people, on Wednesday, April 29th, 1863, he and they little thinking it would be for the last time, from 2 Thess. 2:16, 17, previously expounding from I Thess. 4:1-3, to the word “sanctification.” In May, 1863, he supplied, as usual with him, for a month at Gower Street Chapel, London, when his altered appearance and the weakness and hoarseness of his voice were so apparent that he was induced to consult a skilful physician, who, after due examination of his case, most earnestly advised him to cease from preaching, at least for the present. It was to him a deep and heavy trial to cease from his beloved work, but feeling the wisdom of the counsel and the necessity of the case, when he returned home after the conclusion of his engagement at Gower Street, he did not attempt again to preach. On Wednesday, June 24th, 1863, he read hymn 667, and on Lord’s day, June 28th, he gave out hymn 591, which was the last hymn he read in an audible voice in his own chapel. I will quote the last verse, as so appropriate, and as if the dear man had some anticipation of his approaching end:

“The time is now fix’d, and soon it will come, 

When Christ will his messenger send,

To fetch him from Meshech and carry him home; 

And then all his sorrows will end.”

On Thursday, July 2, he came to Oakham, on a visit to his sister, Mrs. Keal, and on his way thither called at Stamford to see me, and went with me to the chapel where I preached that evening. I was much struck with his altered appearance and loss of voice, and though then it had not sunk, as afterwards, into a whisper, I had some difficulty in maintaining a continuous conversation with him. As I left home next day, to fulfil my engagements in London and Wilts, I did not see him again till September 5th, he being then still at Oakham, when I perceived that his health had become more broken, and his countenance more pallid and deathlike; and though his complaint seemed still obscure, it was evident that some organic disease was preying upon his life. During the whole of the autumn and winter he remained at Oakham, under the hospitable roof of his brother-in-law, Mr. Keal, where everything that kindness, affection, and medical skill could suggest was done for his comfort, and, if it were the will of God, his restoration. During that period, therefore, I saw him constantly, spending nearly four days every fortnight in the same house with him. His loss of voice, however, and weakened, broken health much prevented conversation between us, as he could scarcely be heard across the table, and to talk at any length brought on cough and exhaustion. But I was an eye-witness of his patient submission to the afflicting hand of God, and on one occasion particularly to the consolations with which he was favoured. But for the most part he was very silent, living chiefly, except at meals, in his own room, and during the winter almost wholly confined to the house. Still, whenever he could, and weather permitted, he attended the chapel; for his heart was ever with the dear people of God and in the house of prayer, though it was painful to us and to him that he should be a silent listener where he had been so often a bold and faithful preacher. It being the will of God to lay his afflicting hand on me in the early spring of 1864, I did not see him from the end of February till the close of April; when again on visiting Oakham, I did not observe so great an alteration in his appearance as I had anticipated. Still the disease was evidently making progress, and though from the very first I doubted whether he would ever recover his voice or health, I felt more confirmed in my fears that his sickness was unto death. As his voice was gone, his work seemed done and his ministry ended; and as he had given us an example of doing, so now it appeared as if he were appointed to set us an example of suffering the will of God. The dear man must indeed have suffered greatly in his body, as we all know what a tender spot the throat is; and the nature of his complaint not only made swallowing difficult, but brought on sometimes such violent fits of coughing as it was painful to witness. But in all my observation of him, I never heard him complain or murmur. The precise nature of his complaint being obscure, and knowing from the description of those who had witnessed it what a fearful disease it would be should the affection in his throat prove to be cancerous, which was at one time apprehended, I have often prayed that the Lord would cut short his work, and spare my dear friend the dreaded suffering.

Further medical advice being thought necessary, he expressed himself willing to consult a London physician who had paid great attention to throat disease. He therefore, May 30, left Oakham for London, after a sojourn there of about eleven months.

I have often admired the kind providence of God over him in giving him such a comfortable home during his illness. His complaint being very weakening, he needed much support and constant attention; and those who are acquainted with his abstemious, self-denying habits, will feel with me that he would not have allowed himself what he once viewed as luxuries, but which had now become, such as meat thrice a day and wine, necessities. I was with him the last morning that he was at Oakham, praying with him and for him in the family, and most kindly and affectionately we parted, though I did not then think I should never see him alive again. The London physician, who had paid great attention to throat disease, decided, by ocular inspection, that there was a malignant ulcer, as had previously been suspected, on one of the vocal cords, but would not pronounce any decided opinion upon the thickening in the throat, but thought it might ultimately prove cancerous. This, however, was not the case, as the event proved that it was a simple abscess, gradually wearing him out, but not approaching that fearful disease, cancer, in its symptoms or effects.

At various times the Lord abundantly blessed his soul, reconciling him to his heavy affliction, though from the loss of voice he could not converse much with those who came to see him. On June 11 he left London for Clifton, near Abingdon, and the next day being the Lord’s Day, after hearing Mr. Knill with great sweetness, he assisted him in administering the Ordinance to the church of which he had been so many years the beloved pastor, taking the bread round on the one side of the chapel and the cup on the other. He had previously chosen Hymn 1121 to be sung, and was much blessed when Mr. Knill gave it out, especially at the fourth verse:

“Do this,” he cried, “till time shall end, In memory of your dying Friend! Meet at my table, and record The love of your departed Lord.”

Most affecting was the scene, and many tears were shed on both sides, he feeling so deeply the coming back amongst his own people with the blessing of God resting on his soul, and they rejoiced to welcome him amongst them, yet sorrowing over his altered appearance. A friend from whose account we have gathered most of the above particulars thus describes it: “To see the friends come to him and shake hands with him, the tears of love and sorrow flowing down every face, was a scene that we hardly expect will ever take place in our church again.” Being thus so specially favoured and blest in returning and revisiting his own beloved people, it seemed powerfully laid on his mind that among them he would come to live what remained of his span of life, die, and be buried; for he told the friend with whom he was staying on returning to his house at Clifton that “he should like to live at Abingdon, die at Abingdon, and be buried at Abingdon.” When this desire of his was named to the friends, it exactly met their wishes, for they had much felt the long separation from them, and earnestly desired that their dear pastor’s last days should be spent among them. On June 13, he went to Brinkworth, Wilts, to spend a short time with a dear and esteemed friend, and whilst there was again much blessed and favoured in his soul. Meanwhile his wish to come to Abingdon and there live and die being made known to the friends, they exerted themselves to procure a suitable house for him, and put everything in readiness for his reception on his return. On Friday, July 1, he came back to Abingdon, and entered into and upon his last earthly abode. Being quiet and out of the town, it well suited him; and as it faced the cemetery, in which he knew his body would soon lie, it much met his feelings, which we, who knew him well, remember even in health were much engaged on the solemn subject of death.

It may not be here, perhaps, out of place to say that having given away or spent for the glory of God and the good of his people every sixpence of his own property, he was now in good measure dependent on the friends. This he need not have been but for his own excessive liberality, for if he had but a shilling he would give more than half away. When remonstrated with on giving away so freely and leaving himself nothing, he used to say he had no fear but that he should be provided for when he needed it. And so he found it; for the Lord, who gave him that faith, owned it, and he never lacked anything which could add to his comfort to the last day of his life.

Being again much favoured and blest in his new abode, he said that he was grateful to the Lord that ever he returned to Abingdon, for he felt now that he was in his right place. Though I should for some reasons have been glad for him to return to Oakham, that he might have all the comforts there so much needed and so freely given in his declining state, yet I could not but feel and say it was a gracious decision when he fixed to live and die amongst his own people; and I am sure that all who knew and loved him will own with me it was just the man the final and suitable close to his godly, self-denying life.

But I will now give an extract from the letter of a friend who was much with him in his last days, and stood by his dying bed:

“I have had the pleasure and privilege of attending upon him in. some small way or other almost daily ever since his return to Abingdon. The first Lord’s day he was able to come to chapel, but the second he was not; and in the morning of that day he was very low and tried in his mind; but about four o’clock in the afternoon the Lord broke in upon his soul and greatly blessed him. He told the friends afterwards who came to see him that ‘the Lord had crowned it all now;’ and he never sank so low after that time; but, in answer to my daily questions, said that he was quite comfortable in his mind. He came after that every Lord’s day to chapel, a kind friend lending me a sociable to fetch him and bring him back. But the last Lord’s day, August 14th, I could see a great change in him. While we were at dinner by ourselves in the school-room, at the chapel, I told him he was very ill. He thought that he was not so ill as he was on the previous Lord’s day; but it was plain to many of our friends that he was much weaker. He told me that he had heard Mr. Beard well, that it was the right sort of preaching, and that he was glad to be there. I saw him again on Monday; he was still weaker, but did not appear like dying so soon. On that day, however, the abscess broke internally, and he brought up a great deal of fetid matter. Indeed, on the previous day his breath was so offensive that I could scarcely bear to be near him. After the abscess broke, he began gradually to sink, having lost apparently all power to swallow his food, and what little he took coming back with what he spit up. I arranged to come on Tuesday morning to him again, which I did. I heard he was worse, and went to him at once. When I got to his house I found him very weak, and sitting upon the sofa, for he had managed to get up and dress himself. I said, ‘How are you this morning, Mr. Tiptaft?’ and his answer was, ‘I am greatly blessed this morning.’ The 472nd hymn was much blessed to him:

‘When languor and disease invade 

This trembling house of clay,’ &c.

He had come down stairs at six o’clock, shaved himself, and had breakfast, but was very weak. I might say he did not eat any breakfast, but brought back what he had tried to swallow. He asked me if I thought he had better go to bed. I said, ‘Yes, Sir, you had.’ He said, ‘Well, then, I will.’ I got him up stairs with great difficulty, and then he was obliged to rest. When he recovered a little strength, he let me take off his clothes and get him into bed. After he had been in bed a little while, he said to me, ‘What two great mercies these are to be made fit and willing to die.’ He was then suffering very much, apparently struggling with death; but he said, ‘Death has lost its sting, and the grave its victory.’ He told friend Hicks so when he came to see him, soon after he had repeated it to me. He then asked me to read, and friend Hicks to pray. I read Psalm 116 to him, and said to him, ‘You have said a great deal about this psalm.’ He said, ‘Yes.’ Friend Hicks prayed, and after that I asked him if he was still happy. Though in appearance greatly suffering, he said he could look death in the face, and added, ‘What a mercy!’ Friend Hicks said, ‘You used to give out that Hymn (406), which reads as follows in the last verse;’ and friend Hicks then repeated the verse:

“‘When called to meet the King of dread, 

Should love compose my dying bed,

And grace my soul sustain,

Then, ere I quit this mortal clay, 

I’ll raise my fainting voice, and say,

Let grace triumphant reign.'”

Friend Hicks said, ‘Is that verse your mind now?’ and he said, ‘Yes.’ After this, friend Hicks left him, and a friend came wishing to see him. I told him it was Mrs. Paxman, of Clifton. ‘Can you see her?’ He said she might come and shake hands and withdraw, as he could not speak to her. I told her, and she came to him and shook hands. He smiled and said to her, ‘As my afflictions abound, so also do my consolations.’ Mrs. Paxman shook hands, and withdrew. He continued for about three hours with only himself and me in the room. I frequently asked him if he was happy, and he said, ‘Yes.’ During this time he said I might write and tell friends how happy he was; that his last days had been his best, and that Christ was precious to him, But he was still suffering, and I could not help praying that the Lord would cut short his sufferings, and take him to himself; but at the same time thought I ought to pray that the dear Lord would grant him strength and resignation to suffer all his holy will. He about this time (8 o’clock) tried to take a little chicken broth, but could not swallow it. I here might say that I had sent for the doctor some hours before, and the doctor said he had not power to swallow; and that was the case, for he did not swallow any more. About half-past 8 o’clock he said, ‘How do I look? Does my forehead look thin and pale.’ I said, ‘Yes.’ He then said, ‘Why did you think I was worse last Lord’s day?’ I said, ‘You looked worse, and you were weaker.’ He said he was in more pain the Lord’s day previously. I said, ‘The battle will soon be over.’ He said, ‘Do you think so?’ I said, ‘Yes; you will soon be in glory.’ He replied, ‘Yes, and what a mercy!’ He tried to take some tea, but could not swallow it, and could only wash his mouth out with it. His cough now left him, and he was better able to speak, and in a louder whisper. About 9 o’clock he was still in great restlessness of body. I again asked if he was happy, and said, ‘Is Jesus precious?’ He said, ‘Yes, yes.’ He said again, ‘What a mercy that my last days have been my best!’ I said, ‘Yes, and your last hours have been your best.’ He said, ‘Yes.’ He then wanted to get out of bed and have his bed made up afresh. I got him into his chair, and he told me I must do the bed up myself. I did so, and got him into bed again; and he then said, ‘What a mercy to have the greatest blessings when most needed! To me it would be better to die; to ‘die would be my gain.’ He was still very restless in body, and said, ‘O dear! It is almost enough to wear any one out.’ I said, ‘Yes, the battle will soon be over.’ He said, ‘ Yes. Miss Richmond and Mrs. Bobart, both of them members of the church, came in. He shook hands and smiled, said he was still happy, and hoped to meet them in glory. Mrs. Hall, his house-keeper, now came into the room, with two other friends. He told Mrs. Hall he was happy. About half-past 11 he got more quiet, and his restlessness was nearly over. He then began as though he would preach to us, and said, ‘What a mercy! My last moments are my best.’ I then said, ‘You will soon be in glory.’ He said, ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘You can say, ‘I shall soon be landed.’ He said, ‘Yes, and join the happy throng, and it is free grace, free grace. Free will sentiments will not do to die with. It is free grace that will stand for ever; but free will will be dashed.’ He said something else, but I could not hear distinctly the other words. He then said, ‘What troubles and sorrows attend the true followers of the Lamb! But what a mercy to endure to the end.’ And again, ‘My last moments have been my best.’ I heard him now say, ‘Thy love is better than wine. Praise God, praise God.’ He said that he ‘longed to be gone and praise the Lord in glory.’ I answered, ‘You can say, ‘Behold his chariot wheels, and say, ‘Let grace triumphant reign.’ He said, ‘Yes, and grace shall have all the praise.’ He then got very quiet, and gently breathed his last at 25 minutes past one in the morning of the 17th of August, 1864. How forcibly those words struck my mind as his last breath was gone: ‘Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright; for the end of that man is peace.’

”Culham, Abingdon. 

”EDWIN PORTEK.”

Had I been permitted to fulfil my engagement at Abingdon for August 21st, it would have fallen to my lot to bury my dear friend and brother; but I was not able, from general ill health and from an attack of cold and sore throat just at the time, even to attend the funeral. He was laid in his last resting-place by Mr. Tanner, of Cirencester, assisted by Mr. Gorton and Mr. A. Hammond, and it might be truly said that “devout men carried him to his burial, and made great lamentation over him;” (Acts 8:2;) for many tears tears not only of sorrow but of affection, tempered with holy joy at his blessed end were shed by the members of his bereaved church and by the friends who came far and near to pay the last tribute of respect to his memory. And I must say for myself that, though I should have much felt it, I have often since wished that my eyes could have rested upon his coffin as it was lowered into the earth, and that I could have seen him, as he has so often prayed, “well laid in the grave.”

Stamford, Sept. 16,1864.

J. C. Philpot