In the month of December, 1643, just after the Scotch treaty had been ratified, and while the Puritans waited for their allies, a great man passed away from the scene of strife. A journal reported how some at Oxford drank "a health to his Majesty, by whom we live and move and have our being; and to the confusion of Pym, his God, and his Gospel." Whether the report be an exaggeration of fact, or, as we would hope, a pure fiction, certainly Pym was an object of intense dislike to the Royalists, and his death removed a formidable antagonist. Crushed by toil and anxiety, his health had rapidly failed; and, while his body suffered from disease, and his mind from anxiety, he had to endure the fury of a populace which now sought to dash in pieces the god of its former idolatry. As the patriot lay on his death-bed, men, in women's clothes, instigated by those who wished to thwart the rigorous prosecution of the war, besieged the House of Commons, madly crying out, "Give us the traitor, that we may tear him to pieces, give us the dog Pym!"[374] The brutality of the mob had its match in the malignity of the Royalists, who, if rumour be true, kept horses idle in the stables, waiting to carry down to Oxford tidings of the wished-for stroke.[375] Report further spoke of knighthood as promised to the first who should bring the news. It was also stated that the night after Pym's decease, bonfires were blazing in the University streets to celebrate the event.[376]
Westminster Abbey has witnessed many noble funerals. The pavement has but just closed over the remains of a renowned parliamentary chief, and we have a fresh remembrance of the long procession and the solemn service, the crowds of spectators and the general mourning at the burial of Lord Palmerston. The obsequies of John Pym were perhaps still more imposing. Preceded by servants and friends, by numerous persons of distinction according to their rank, and by the Westminster Assembly of Divines, attended also by some little pomp of heraldry, the remains of that illustrious statesman were borne on the shoulders of certain of his fellow-commoners up the nave of the cathedral, followed by his family, and by the members of both Houses of Parliament.[377] They crowded the vast building, whilst Stephen Marshall preached a sermon describing the virtues of the deceased. "He maintained," said the minister, "the same evenness of spirit which he had in the time of his health, professing to myself, that it was to him a most indifferent thing to live or die; if he lived, he would do what service he could, if he died, he should go to that God whom he had served, and who would carry on his work by some others. To others he said that if his life and death were put into a balance he would not willingly cast in one drachm to turn the balance either way. This was his temper all the time of his sickness." "Such of his family or friends who endeavoured to be near him (lest he should faint away in his weakness) have overheard him importunately pray for the King's Majesty and his posterity, for the Parliament and the public cause, for himself begging nothing. And a little before his end, _having recovered out of a swound_, seeing his friends weeping around him, he cheerfully told them he had looked death in the face, and knew, and therefore feared not the worst it could do, assuring them that his heart was filled with more comfort and joy which he felt from God, than his tongue was able to utter, and (whilst a reverend minister was at prayer with him) he quietly slept with his God."[378]