Chapter V: The Progressive Professor (4)

We read that the celebrated Montaigne wished to make a compilation of remarkable death-bed scenes; for, as he said, "he who should teach men how to die would teach them how to live." It may not be unprofitable for us to recall the last moments of some who have died in the Catholic Church. It may give us some new idea of the power of faith to sustain the soul in that supreme moment, and show us in what a super-eminent degree the spirit of the church fits one for the last great change, and fortifies him to meet it hopefully if not triumphantly. Let us, then, in this month, consecrated by so many pious Catholic hearts to the memory of the dead, draw around the death-beds of some who are remarkable in various ways, and see if we would not have our last end like theirs. There is a horrid curiosity, if no higher feeling, which attracts us to the side of the dying, "to observe their words, their actions, and what sort of countenance they put upon it." It is as if we would read the final conflict of the soul, obtain some new insight into the great mystery of death, and perhaps catch some glimpse of what awaits us beyond its shadows. Even the unbeliever at such a moment, forced to reflect on the destiny of the soul, exclaims, "Soul, what art thou? Flame that devourest me, wilt thou live after me? Must thou suffer still? Mysterious guest, what wilt thou become? Seekest thou to reunite thyself to the great flame of day? Perhaps from this fire thou art only a spark, only a wandering ray which that star recalls. Perhaps, ceasing to exist when man dies, thou art only a moisture more pure than the animated dust the earth has produced." The mind thus excited to doubt and question is already on the road to conviction. To see how a good man meets his fate, is a lesson of heavenly love which fastens itself in the memory; the words that consoled him and that he uttered sink into the heart, perhaps to diffuse light when our own time comes.

If Addison found nothing more imposing, nothing more affecting, than accounts of the last moments of the dying; if the great Montaigne loved the most minute details respecting them, we need not turn with repugnance from what we have a vital interest in, and what may give us some new idea of the blessing of dying in the arms of our Holy Mother the Church, fortified by her sacraments and sustained by her spirit. The French historian Anquetil, in giving an account of the death of Montmorenci, says, "It is instructive for persons of all conditions in life to witness the death of a great man who unites noble sentiments with Christian humility." It is true Dr. Johnson says, "It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives;" but a holy death is generally the crown of a good life, though "there are dark, dark deaths which even the saints have died, the aspect of whose brightness was all turned heavenward, so we could not see it."[38]

I do not believe that "there is more or less of affectation in every death-bed scene." Young, rather, is right:

"A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here tired dissimulation drops her mask
Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene!"

Father Faber says:

"Every Christian death-bed is a world--a complete world--of
graces, interferences, compensations, lights, struggles,
victories, supernatural gestures, and the action of grand
spiritual laws. Each death-bed, explained to us as God could
explain it, would be in itself an entire science of God--a summa
of the most delicate theology. The varieties of grace in the
individual soul are so many infinities of the one infinite life of
God. No two deaths are quite alike. The most delicate shades of
difference between one death and another would probably disclose
to us more of the ways of God, and more of the capabilities of the
soul than philosophy has ever taught. Some deaths are so beautiful
that they can hardly be recognizable for punishments. Such was
the death of St. Joseph, with his head pillowed on the lap of
Jesus. The twilight bosom of Abraham was but a dull place compared
with the house of Nazareth which the eyes of Jesus lighted. Such
was Mary's death, the penalty of which was rather in its delay.
It was a soft extinction, through the noiseless flooding of her
heart with divine love. As nightingales are said to have sung
themselves to death, so Simeon died, not of the sweet weariness of
his long watching, but of the fulness of his contentment, of the
satisfaction of his desires, of the very new youth of soul which
the touch of the Eternal Child had infused into his age, and,
breaking forth into music which heaven itself might envy and could
not surpass, he died with his world-soothing song upon his lips--a
song so sunset-like that one might believe all the beauty of all
earth's beautiful evenings since creation had gone into it to
fill it full of peaceful spells. Age after age shall take up the
strain. All the poetry of Christian weariness is in it. It gives
a voice to the heavenly detachment and unworldliness of countless
saints. It is the heart's evening light after the working hours
of the day to millions and millions of believers. The very last
compline that the church shall sing, before the midnight when the
doom begins and the Lord breaks out upon the darkness from the
refulgent east, shall overflow with the melodious sweetness of
Simeon's pathetic song."

Thus do our words--even dying words--go on vibrating for ever.

How many have died like St. Oswald, Archbishop of York, and the Venerable Bede, repeating the _Gloria Patri_--that act of praise which St. Jerome found in constant use among the oriental monks, and was the means of introducing it into the western church, where it is now daily repeated by countless tongues.

St. Ignatius Loyola died with the holy name of Jesus on his lips, that watchword of his glorious order so full of sweetness to the heart. So did that angelic youth, St. Aloysius. St. Hubert died repeating the Lord's Prayer; St. Stephen of Grandmont while saying, "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." So did St. John of the Cross, St. Catharine of Genoa, and hundreds of others.

St. Arsenius, after more than fifty years spent in the desert, regarded death with fear. His brethren, seeing him weep in his agony, asked him if, like other men, he feared to die. "I am seized with great fear," he answered, "nor has this dread ever left me since I first came into the desert." Nevertheless, he expired, in peace and humble confidence, in his ninety-fifth year.

St. John Chrysostom, when dying, had all his clothes changed, even to his shoes, putting on his best garments, which were white, as for his heavenly nuptials; for "to one who loves," says Novalis, "death is a mystery of sweet mysteries--it is a bridal night." He then received the blessed sacrament and prayed, ending according to his custom, with, "Glory be to God for all things." Then making the sign of the cross, he gave up his soul.[39]

We read of the poet-monk Cædmon, "That tongue, which had composed so many holy words in praise of the Creator, uttered its last words while he was in the act of signing himself with the cross, and thus he fell into a slumber to awaken in paradise and join in the hymns of the holy angels whom he had imitated in this world, both in his life and in his songs."[40]

The account of the death of the Venerable Bede is well known, but it is one that can always be read again and again with renewed profit, and never without emotion.

"About a fortnight before the feast of Easter," says his disciple
Cuthbert, "he was reduced to a state of great debility, with
difficulty of breathing, but without much pain, and in that
condition he lasted till the day of the Lord's Ascension. This
time he passed cheerfully and joyfully, giving thanks to Almighty
God both by day and night, or rather at all hours of the day
and night. He continued to give lessons to us daily, spending
the rest of his time in psalmody, and the night also in joy and
thanksgiving, unless he were interrupted by a short sleep; and
yet, even then, the moment he awaked he began again, and never
ceased, with outstretched hands, to return thanks to God. I can
declare with truth that I never saw with my eyes, nor heard with
my ears, of any man who was so indefatigable in giving thanks to
the living God.

"O truly happy man! He chanted the passage from the blessed
Apostle Paul, 'It is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands
of the living God,' and several other passages from Holy Writ,
warning us to throw off all torpor of soul, in consideration of
our last hour. And being conversant with Anglo-Saxon poetry, he
repeated several passages and composed the following lines in our
tongue:

'Before the need-fare
None becometh
Of thought more wise
Than is his need.
To search out
Ere his going hence,
What his spirit
For good or evil
After his death-day
Doomed may be.'

He also chanted the antiphons according to his and our custom.
One of these is, 'O King of glory, Lord of hosts, who on this
day didst ascend in triumph above all the heavens, leave us not
orphans, but send upon us the Spirit of truth, the promised of
the Father. Alleluia.' When he came to the words 'leave us not
orphans,' he burst into tears and wept much; and after a while he
resumed where he had broken off, and we who heard him wept with
him. We wept and studied by turns; or rather wept all the time
that we studied.

"Thus we passed in joy the quinquagesimal days till the aforesaid
festival, and he rejoiced greatly, and gave thanks to God for
the infirmities under which he suffered, often repeating, 'God
scourgeth every son whom he receiveth,' with other passages of
Scripture, and the saying of St. Ambrose, 'I have not lived so as
to be ashamed to live among you; nor do I fear to die, for we have
a gracious God.'

"During these days, beside the lessons which he gave us, and
the chant of the psalms, he undertook the composition of two
memorable works; that is, he translated into our language the
Gospel of St. John as far as 'But what are those among so many?'
[St. John vi. 9,] and made a collection of extracts from the notes
of Isidore the bishop, saying, 'I will not suffer my pupils to
read falsehoods, and labor without profit in that book, after my
death.' But on the Tuesday before the Ascension his difficulty of
breathing began to distress him exceedingly, and a slight tumor
appeared in his feet. He spent the whole day and dictated to us
with cheerfulness, saying occasionally, 'Lose no time; I know not
how long I may last. Perhaps in a very short time my Maker may
take me.' In fact, it seemed to us that he knew the time of his
death. He lay awake the whole night praising God, and at dawn on
the Wednesday morning ordered us to write quickly, which we did
till the hour of tierce. At that hour we walked in procession with
the relics, as the rubric for the day prescribed; but one of us
remained to wait on him, and said to him, 'Dearest master, there
still remains one chapter unwritten; will it fatigue you if I ask
more questions?' 'No,' said Bede; 'take your pen and mend it, and
write quickly.' This he did.

"At noon he said to me, 'I have some valuables in my little
chest--pepper, handkerchiefs, and incense. Run quickly and bring
the priests of the monastery to me, that I may make to them such
presents as God hath given to me. The rich of this world give
gold and silver and other things of value; I will give to my
brethren what God hath given to me, and will give it with love
and pleasure.' I shuddered, but did as he had bidden. He spoke to
each one in his turn, reminding and entreating them to celebrate
masses, and to pray diligently for him, which all readily promised
to do.

"When they heard him say that they would see him no more in this
world, all burst into tears; but their tears were tempered with
joy when he said, 'It is time that I return to Him who made me
out of nothing I have lived long, and kindly hath my merciful
Judge forecast the course of my life for me. The time of my
dissolution is at hand. I wish to be released and to be with
Christ.' In this way he continued to speak cheerfully till sunset,
when the fore-mentioned youth said, 'Beloved master, there is
still one sentence unwritten.' 'Then write quickly,' said Bede.
In a few minutes the youth said, 'It is finished.' 'Thou hast
spoken truly,' replied Bede; 'take my head between thy hands,
for it is my delight to sit opposite to that holy place in which
I used to pray; let me sit and invoke my Father.' Sitting thus
on the pavement of the cell, and repeating, 'Glory be to the
Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,' as he finished
the word 'Ghost,' he breathed his last and took his departure for
heaven."[41]

We read that St. Dunstan had Mass celebrated in his room on the day of his death; and after communicating, he broke forth into the following prayer, "Glory be to thee, Almighty Father, who hast given the bread of life from heaven to those that fear thee, that we may be mindful of thy wonderful mercy to man in the incarnation of thine only-begotten Son, born of the Virgin. To thee, Holy Father, for that when we were not, thou didst give to us a being, and when we were sinners, didst grant to us a Redeemer, we give due thanks through the same thy Son, our Lord and God, who with thee and the Holy Ghost maketh all things, governeth all things, and liveth through ages and ages without end." Shortly afterward he died in the sixty-fourth year of his age.

The Cistercian abbot Aelred of Yorkshire died in wonderful peace after eight years of monastic life, repeating with his last breath, "I will sing eternally, O Lord, thy mercy, thy mercy, thy mercy!"

While St. Wilfrid of York lay dying in the fair town of Oundle, the monks did not cease chanting night and day around his bed, though with much ado, so bitterly they wept. When they came to the one hundred and third psalm, and were sweetly and solemnly singing the words, "Emittes spiritum tuum, et creabuntur, et renovabis faciem terræ," "Thou shalt send forth thy spirit, and they shall be created; and thou shalt renew the face of the earth," the words stirred the soul of the careworn abbot, by whose pillow lay the Lord's body and blood; he turned his head gently, and without a sigh gave back his soul to God.[42]

St. Gilbert, when he was more than a century old, used to exclaim, "How long, O Lord, wilt thou forget me for ever? Woe is me, for the time of my sojourning is prolonged!" His soul was at last released one morning at the hour of dawn, while the monks were repeating the verse of the office, "The night is far spent, the day is at hand."

Twenty abbots assembled to witness the death of St. Stephen Harding at Citeaux. Hearing them whisper that he had nothing to fear after so holy and austere a life, he said to them trembling, "I assure you I go to God in fear and trembling. If my baseness should be found to have ever done any good, even in this I fear lest I should not have preserved that grace with the humility and care I ought."

St. Francis of Assisi, when he found he was dying, wished to be laid on the bare ground. When this was done, he crossed his arms and said, "Farewell, my children. I leave you in the fear of God. Abide therein. The time of trial and tribulation cometh. Happy are they who persevere in well-doing. For me, I go to God joyfully, recommending you all to his grace." He had the passion according to the Gospel of St. John read to him, and then repeated in a feeble voice the one hundred and forty-first psalm. Having said the final verse, "Bring my soul out of prison," he breathed his last.

St. Thomas Aquinas died lying on ashes sprinkled on the floor. When he saw the holy viaticum in the priest's hands, he said, "I firmly believe that Jesus Christ, true God and true man, is present in this august sacrament. I adore thee, my God and my Redeemer. I receive thee, the price of my redemption, the viaticum of my pilgrimage, for whose honor I have studied, labored, preached, and taught. I hope I have never advanced any tenet as thy word which I had not learned from thee. If through ignorance I have done otherwise, I revoke it all and submit my writings to the judgment of the holy Roman Church." Thus lying in peace and joy, he received the last sacraments, and was heard to murmur, "Soon, soon will the God of all consolation crown his mercy to me and satisfy all my desires. I shall shortly be satiated in him, and drink of the torrent of my delights; be inebriated from the abundance of his house; and in him, the source of life, I shall behold the true light."

When the viaticum was brought to St. Theresa, she rose up in her bed and exclaimed, "My Lord and my Spouse! the desired hour has at length come. It is time for me to depart hence." Her confessor asked her if she wished to be buried in her own convent at Avila. She replied, "Have I any thing of my own in this world? Will they not give me a little earth here?" She died with the crucifix in her hands, repeating, as long as she could speak, the verse of the Miserere, "A contrite and humble heart, O God, thou wilt not despise!"

There is a touching account of a renowned and pious knight who, in the ages of faith, made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Following lovingly the traces of our Saviour's steps, his heart became so broken with sorrow and love that his life flowed out through the wound. He visited with tender devotion Nazareth, whose hills leaped for joy when the Divine Word became incarnate in the womb of a Virgin; Mount Tabor, whose summit was lit up by God glorifying his only Son; the river Jordan, consecrated by the baptism our Lord received at the hands of St. John the Baptist; Bethlehem, where in a poor manger were heard the first cries of the Infant Word; the Garden of Gethsemane, which Jesus bedewed with a bloody sweat; Golgotha, where by his blood the Redeemer reconciled earth with heaven; and the glorious tomb whence the God-man issued triumphant over death. Finally, he came to the Mount of Olives. Here contemplating the sacred foot-prints left on the rock by the ascending Saviour, he pressed his lips upon them with loving gratitude; then gathering together all the strength of his love, raising his eyes and hands toward heaven, and longing to ascend by the way taken by our Saviour, "O Lord Jesus!" he cried in all the ardor of his love, "I can no longer find thee or follow thee in this land of exile; grant that my heart may ascend to thee on high!" And, as he uttered these ardent words, his soul fled to God like an arrow direct to its aim.

I find in an old book the following affecting account of the death of Friar Benedict, who died at La Trappe on the twentieth of August, 1674:

"Brother Benedict, of the diocese of Rouen, died five years and a
half after his profession, the day of the _fête_ of our father St.
Bernard, aged thirty-two years. And as God visited him peculiarly
with his grace in the progress of his disease, and at the time
of his death, it has been thought desirable, in order both to
recognize the mercy of Christ and for the edification of his
community, to record the principal circumstances of his life and
death.

"He fell sick nearly four years before his death of a disease
upon his chest, and although, after that time, he was almost
continually oppressed with a violent cough, with extreme pain, and
with an intermitting fever, he never manifested even the slightest
impatience of his suffering or the least desire to be cured.
About Christmas of the year 1673, which preceded his death a few
months, his disease increased. But he did not cease to discharge
the peculiar offices prescribed to penitents in the monastery.
The fever which seized him about the middle of Christmas did
not prevent his following the same course of life he had long
pursued. Five days after Easter, his disease having considerably
advanced, the reverend father abbot ordered him to be conducted to
the infirmary. There his fever immediately increased, his limbs
inflamed, his cough became more violent, and the struggles in
which he passed his nights quite exhausted him. Notwithstanding
this, he continued to lie on a hard bed of straw till the moment
when they removed him to the ashes, five hours before his death.
He rose at four in the morning; he dined at the table of the
infirmary, though his weakness was such that he was evidently
unable to sustain the weight of his own head. During this time
nothing was to be discovered upon his countenance which did not
evidence the most complete tranquillity. He had been remarkably
ingenious, and had nothing about him which he had not both
invented and executed. Three weeks before his death, he said to
the father abbot that, as he had been in the habit of constructing
many things for the convenience of the monastery, and as it might
be troublesome to the abbot to find and introduce workmen into
the house after his death, he would on this account, if agreeable
to the abbot, instruct one of the brothers in his various arts.
The abbot having consented, he instructed a monk in less than a
fortnight in the different arts in which he had been accustomed
to be employed. And notwithstanding his weakness and pain, he did
all this with so much patience and collectedness that he seemed
to have lost all remembrance of his sufferings. The father abbot,
knowing the grace which God had given to him, and the degree in
which God had detached him from the world, thought it his duty
to follow up what he believed to be the designs of Providence in
regard to him. This led him in the various ordinances of religion
to maintain all the rigor which charity and prudence would permit;
though in all private communications with him he treated him with
the tenderness of a father. One day, when so overcome with pain
that he could take nothing, he described his state to the father
abbot, accompanying his description with certain expressions of
countenance which it is almost impossible to restrain in such
circumstances. The father abbot, however, said with severity,
(as though he had no compassion for those sufferings in which he
sympathized so truly,) that 'he spoke like a man of the world,
and that a monk ought to manifest under the worst circumstances
the constancy of his soul.' Benedict in an instant assumed that
air of severity that never afterward quitted him. The fear lest
the great exertions which he made by day and by night, combined
with his extreme debility, might suddenly remove him, led them to
give him the holy sacrament and extreme unction. He received both
with every demonstration of piety. Such, however, was his weakness
that he immediately fainted away. The father abbot having asked,
before they brought him the extreme unction, if he desired that
the whole community should be present at the ceremony, he answered
that, 'exterior ceremonies were not of vital importance; that
his brethren would derive little edification from him; and that
he had more need of their prayers than their presence.' All his
conversation during his malady was on the necessity of separation
from worldly things, of the joy which he anticipated in death, and
of the mercy which God had shown him in suffering him to end his
days in the society of the father abbot.

"Some days before his death, the father abbot inquired minutely
into the state of his mind; he answered in these very words, 'I
consider the day of my death as a festival; I have no desire for
any thing here, and I cannot better express my total separation
from things below than by comparing myself to a leaf which the
wind has lifted from the earth. All that I have read in the sacred
Scriptures comes home to me and fills me with joy. Nevertheless,
I can in no action of my life see any thing which can sustain
the judgment of God, and which is not worthy of punishment; but
the confidence which I have in his goodness gives me hope and
consolation.' He added, 'How can it be that God should show such
compassion to a man who has so miserably served him? I desire
death alone; what can a man be thinking of, not always to desire
it? What joy, my father, when I remember that I am about to
refresh myself in the waters of life.'

"His ordinary reading, for many years of his life, had been the
sacred Scriptures, which were so familiar to him that he spoke of
little else. He mentioned to the father abbot so many passages,
and repeated them in a manner so touching, so animated, and so
devotional, that his hearers were at once edified and astonished.
Those passages which were uppermost in his mind respected chiefly
the majesty of God; but as he had a most humble opinion of his own
life, which had however been, in the main, faithful and pure, he
always reverted to the subject of the divine compassion. It was in
that he found peace and repose.

"On the day of the Assumption, he felt himself so weak that he
was unable to leave the infirmary. The father abbot carried him
our Lord, whom he received upon his knees, leaning on two of his
brethren. Two days afterward, he fell into strong convulsions, and
imagined that the hour of his deliverance was come. The father
abbot asked, 'Is it with joy that you depart?' 'Yes,' said he,
'from my very heart.' He then added, 'Into thy hands I commend my
spirit.'

"The customary prayers were then offered up for the dying; but
the convulsions having left him, the father abbot said that the
hour of God was not arrived; and having given orders to remove
him from the ashes to his bed, he turned to the father abbot
with a serene countenance, and said, 'The will of God be done.'
He lived three days waiting with anxiety the time when God would
have mercy upon him. And such was his desire of death that the
father abbot was obliged more than once to say to him that it was
not for him to anticipate the designs of Providence. His pangs
lasted till within an hour of his death, but he endured them with
his accustomed patience and serenity. He said three days before
his death that the most dangerous moments were the last, and that
he did not doubt the great enemy of man would seek to disquiet
him, and therefore requested the prayers of the community. The
father abbot, having asked, after some other general discourse,
if he knew the guilt of sin, he answered sighing, and, as it
were, looking into the recesses of his own soul, and in language
expressive of the intensity of his feelings, 'Alas! once I knew
it not; but now I see in the Scripture that God claims, as one of
his chief attributes, the power of pardoning sin; "I am he who
blotteth out your iniquities." I am therefore convinced that sin
is a tremendous offence. I am far, indeed, from being like those
who are always overwhelmed with a consciousness of their offences,
but yet I believe, upon the testimony of faith and Scripture, that
sin is a fathomless gulf of ruin.' These words were accompanied
with a manner so extraordinary that they touched the very hearts
of those who surrounded him.

"His bones having pierced his skin, and his shirt of serge
sticking to his wounds, he begged them to move him a little; but
at the end of the day, when the person who had the care of him
wished again to ease his body, he said, 'My brother, you give me
too much ease.' The father abbot having ordered some milk to be
brought him, which was the only nourishment he took, he said,
'You wish then, my father, to prolong my life, and are unwilling
I should die on the day of St. Bernard.' The father abbot having
quitted him, he begged, perceiving that his death approached, that
he might be called back. As soon as he saw him, he said, 'Father,
my eyes fail me--it is finished.' The father having asked him
in what state he found himself, and if he was about to approach
Christ, 'Yes, father,' said he, 'by the grace of God, I am. I am
not indeed sensible of any extraordinary elevation of my mind to
God; but through his mercy I am in perfect peace. God be thanked!'
This he repeated three times. The father abbot having asked him if
he wished to die upon the cross and upon the ashes, 'Yes,' said
he, 'from my heart.' With these words he lost his speech, or, at
all events, it was impossible to hear any thing intelligible from
him except the name of Jesus, which he pronounced repeatedly. They
carried him to the straw spread out in his chamber. He was nearly
four hours in a dying state, and preserved his recollection during
the whole time. His eyes indicating a wandering state of mind,
the father arose, took some holy water, and, having scattered
it around him, repeated these words, 'Let God arise and let
his enemies be scattered.' His face at this moment resumed its
serenity. He kissed the cross several times, and, wanting strength
to lay hold of it, they observed that he advanced his head to
reverence it every time that it was presented to him. At length
all his disquietudes ceased; they beheld him calm, peaceful,
serene; and he breathed his last sigh with so much tranquillity
that those who watched him scarcely perceived his death."

When William the Conqueror was on his death-bed, he confessed all the sins of his life, from his youth up, aloud and before a large number of priests and nobles from England and Normandy. We read that, after a long agony, on Thursday, the ninth of September, as the sun rose in glorious splendor, William awoke, and presently heard the great bell of the metropolitan church. He asked why it was ringing. "Seigneur," replied his servants, "it is ringing for prime at the church of our Lady St. Mary." Then the king raised his eyes to heaven and, lifting up his hands, said, "I recommend myself to holy Mary, Mother of God, that by her holy prayers she may reconcile me to her dear and beloved Son, our Lord Jesus Christ." With these words he expired.[43]

Peter, King of Aragon, at the approach of death, devoutly confessed all his sins and received the sacraments. After bidding his family farewell, he took a cross in his hands, lifted his streaming eyes to heaven, crossed himself three times, kissed the cross, and then said, "O Lord our Father, Jesus Christ our true God! into thy hands I commend my spirit. Deign by thy holy passion to receive my soul into paradise with the blessed St. Martin, whose festival Christians this day celebrate." And with his eyes still raised heavenward, he departed.[44]

When James, an unlearned lay brother of the order of St. Francis, came to die, he begged pardon of all his brethren, took a wooden cross from the head of his bed, kissed it, put it to his eyes, and then said, with tenderness, "Dulce lignum, dulces clavos, dulcia ferens pondera, quæ sola fuisti digna sustinere Regem coelorum et Dominum," "O sweet wood, sweet nails, supporting a sweet burden! Thou alone wast worthy to sustain the King and Lord of the heavens." All around him were greatly astonished, for he was unlearned, and they had never heard him speak in Latin.[45]

We read in the life of St. Gertrude of the death of a young person, who from her infancy upward had always shown a real spirit of detachment from the world. When she found herself in the agony of death, she bade farewell to all who were present, promising to be mindful of them before God. Then turning in her sufferings toward the Heavenly Bridegroom, she earnestly said, "O Lord, who knowest the most secret thoughts of my heart, thou hast known how eagerly I have longed to spend all the powers of my being, even unto old age, in thy service; now that I feel thou desirest to recall me to thyself, all my desire of serving thee in this world is changed to such an ardent longing to behold thee, and be united to thee, that death, however bitter it may be to others, only seems sweet to me." She wished the sisters to read to her the account of the sufferings of our Saviour in the Gospel of St. John, and when they came to the words, "He bowed his head and gave up the ghost," she asked for a crucifix. She lovingly kissed the feet of the image of our Saviour, thanked him for his graces, commended her soul to his care, and then slept peacefully in our Lord.

Our own Mother Seton, though she saw the intense grief of all the community, and heard the sobs of her daughter, who fainted at her side, died with the most profound composure. Her whole appearance indicated peace and resignation. Lifting her hands and eyes to heaven, she said, "May the most just, the most high, and the most amiable will of God be accomplished for ever." Her last words were the sacred names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

The poet Tasso, when informed that his last hour was at hand, not only received the warning without alarm, but, embracing the physician, thanked him for tidings so agreeable, and, raising his eyes to heaven, returned tender and devout thanks to his Creator that, after so tempestuous a life, he now brought him to a calm haven. From this time he did not speak willingly on terrestrial subjects, not even of that fame after death of which through life he had been most solicitous; but resigned himself wholly and with the liveliest devotion to the last solemn offices prescribed by his religion. After confessing with great contrition, and receiving twice the sacrament with a reverence and humility that affected all the beholders, he received the papal benediction humbly and gratefully, saying this was the chariot upon which he hoped to go crowned, not with laurel as a poet into the capital, but with glory as a saint to heaven. When he had arranged all his earthly affairs, he begged to be left alone with his crucifix and one or two spiritual advisers, who by turns sung psalms, in which he sometimes joined. When his voice failed, his eyes still remained fixed upon the image of the crucified Redeemer. His last act was to embrace it closely. His last words, "Into thy hands, O Lord."

I quote the following account of the death of the great Raphael, in the form of a letter from Cardinal Bibbiena:

"As I entered, he held in his hand a few spring flowers, which
he let fall as I handed him the rosary. He pressed the cross to
his lips and whispered, 'Maria.' His voice had a peculiar sound,
clear but so low as to be scarcely audible. In the sick-room I
found Count Castiglione, the good fathers Antonio and Domenico,
the painter Giulio, and others. They had moved his couch to
the window which stood wide open. Was it the effect of the
softening light or of the approaching triumph? Raphael had never
appeared more beautiful. His complexion was more roseate, and his
thoughtful, brown artist-eyes larger and more luminous than usual.
I told him what his holiness had requested me to say.

"'And so, dear Raphael,' I concluded, 'may the sympathy which the
highest as well as the lowest feels for you, have the power to
keep you long with us!'

"He smiled sadly.

"'You will, you must!' broke in Castiglione. 'Think what a longing
for art your attainments have awakened within us. Think of your
favorite plan to rebuild classical Rome, with its marble palaces
and temples, its triumphal arches and picture galleries!'

"'Yes, I desired it,' replied he; 'and if God had granted me
longer life, I should have succeeded.'

"'Do you still speak,' said I reproachfully, 'as if you would
never recover?'

"'O father!' said he, 'the separation is not easy for me. If I
could describe to you the longing which I have to retain the
departing day! How my heart cherished the last ray of the sun that
lingered on the hill! How beautiful is the world, how beautiful
the faces of men! And now to take leave of them for ever--to sleep
without hope of seeing the morrow!'

"'Beloved,' said I, 'do not forget that to-day the Saviour died,
that we might throw off this mortal life and put on immortality.'

"'How should I forget Him from whom I have received every thing?'
he answered softly. 'But even this mortal life was beautiful.'

"There was a moment's silence. Castiglione had taken Raphael's
hand. The latter was looking through the open window at the
distant hills that were lit up with the soft glow of the setting
sun. Then his glance wandered, evidently in the direction of his
thoughts, to the blue heavens, where the evening star looked down
quietly like a messenger from the other world.

"'I shall see Dante,' said he suddenly.

"At this moment one of those present took the cover from Raphael's
last picture, which hung on the wall opposite the couch. It is, as
you know, an altar-piece--the _Transfiguration_. The sight of the
immortal work, the dying master, the subject of the picture, and
all remembrances associated therewith, overpowered us, and we wept
aloud.

"His features began to change quickly, he spoke still, but wearily
and without connection, though in significant phrases. Twice we
heard those words of Plato, 'Great is the hope, and beautiful the
prize!' He mentioned your name, too, and begged that you would lay
your hand on his head.... The painter Giulio threw himself on the
couch and wept in agony. I asked the others to kneel with me and
pray for the dying.

"Once more Raphael revived, and, supported by two friends, arose
and looked around with wide-open eyes.

"'Whence comes the sunshine?' murmured he.

"'Raphael!' cried I, and extended both hands toward him, 'do you
recognize me?' For a moment it seemed as if he had not heard me,
then he spoke again, and the holy calm of his expression, in spite
of the death-struggle, bore testimony to his words, 'Happy.'...
He did not speak again; but it was full night when a voice broke
through the long stillness, 'Raphael is dead!'"

He died on Good-Friday, 1520, aged thirty-seven.

Besides these holy and edifying deaths, which might be continued indefinitely, we all have treasured up in our heart of hearts the sacred memory of some dear ones whose last words will go on vibrating in our hearts for ever.

"Oh! soothe us, haunt us, night and day,
Ye gentle spirits far away,
With whom ye shared the cup of grace,
Then parted; ye to Christ's embrace,
We to the lonesome world again;
Yet mindful of the unearthly strain
Practised with you at Eden's door,
To be sung on, where angels soar
With blended voices evermore."

FOOTNOTES:

[38] Faber.

[39] Butler.

[40] Mrs. Jameson.

[41] Lingard.

[42] _Life of St. Wilfrid._

[43] Digby.

[44] Ibid.

[45] Digby.

REPLY OF THE PRESBYTERIAN ASSEMBLIES TO THE POPE'S LETTER.

"TO PIUS IX., BISHOP OF ROME:

"In your encyclical letter, dated Sept. 13th, 1868, you invite
'all Protestants' to 'embrace the opportunity' presented by the
council summoned to meet in the city of Rome during the month of
December of the current year, to 'return to the only one fold,'
intending thereby, as the connection implies, the Roman Catholic
Church. That letter has been brought to the notice of the two
General Assemblies of the Presbyterian Church in the United States
of America. Those assemblies represent nearly five thousand
ministers of the gospel, and a still larger number of Christian
congregations.

"Believing, as we do, that it is the will of Christ that his
church on earth should be one; and recognizing the duty of
doing all we consistently can to promote Christian charity and
fellowship, we deem it right to say in few words why we cannot
comply with your invitation, or participate in the deliberations
of the approaching council.

"It is not because we reject any article of the Catholic faith.
We are not heretics; we receive all the doctrines contained in
the ancient symbol known as the Apostles' Creed; we regard as
consistent with Scripture the doctrinal decisions of the first six
oecumenical councils; and because of that consistency we receive
those decisions as expressing our own faith. We believe the
doctrines of the Trinity and Person of Christ as those doctrines
are set forth by the Council of Nice, A.D. 325; by that of
Chalcedon, A.D. 451; and by that of Constantinople, A.D. 680.

"With the whole Catholic Church, therefore, we believe that
there are three persons in the Godhead, the Father, the Son, and
the Holy Ghost; and that these three are one God, the same in
substance, and equal in power and glory.

"We believe that the Eternal Son of God became man by taking
to himself a true body and a reasonable soul; and so was, and
continues to be, both God and man, in two distinct natures and one
person for ever. We believe that our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ
is the Prophet of God, whose teachings we are bound to receive,
and in whose promises we confide. He is the high-priest of our
profession, whose infinitely meritorious satisfaction to divine
justice, and whose ever-prevalent intercession is the only ground
of our justification and acceptance before God. He is our King, to
whom our allegiance is due, not only as his creatures, but as the
purchase of his blood. To his authority we submit; in his care we
trust; and to his service we and all creatures in heaven and earth
should be devoted.

"We believe, moreover, all those doctrines concerning sin, grace,
and predestination, known in history as Augustinian. Those
doctrines were sanctioned by the Council of Carthage, A.D. 416; by
a more general council in the same place, A.D. 418; by Zosimus,
Bishop of Rome, A.D. 418; and by the third Oecumenical Council at
Ephesus, A.D. 481. It is impossible, therefore, that we should be
pronounced heretical without including the whole ancient church
in the same condemnation. We not only 'glory in the name of
Christians, but profess the true faith of Christ, and follow the
communion of the Catholic Church.' Still further to quote your own
words, 'Truth must continue ever stable and not subject to any
change.'

"Neither are we schismatics. We believe in true 'Catholic unity.'
We cordially recognize as members of Christ's visible church on
earth all who profess the true religion, together with their
children. We are not only willing, but earnestly desire, to
maintain Christian communion with them, provided they do not
prescribe as a condition of such communion that we should profess
what the word of God condemns, or do what that word forbids. If
any church prescribes unscriptural conditions of fellowship, the
error and the fault are with such church, and not with us.

"But, although neither heretics nor schismatics, we cannot
accept your invitation, because we still hold the principles
which prompted our 'ancestors,' in the name of primitive
Christianity, and in defence of the 'true faith,' bravely to
protest against the errors and abuses which had been foisted
upon the church--principles for which our fathers were, by the
Council of Trent, representing the church over which you preside,
excommunicated and pronounced accursed. The most important of
those principles are the following:

"FIRST. That the word of God, as contained in the Scriptures of
the Old and New Testament, is the only infallible rule of faith
and practice. The Council of Trent, however, demands that we
receive, _pari pietatis affectu_, the teachings of tradition as
supplementing and interpreting the written word of God. This
we cannot do without incurring the condemnation which our Lord
pronounced on the Pharisees when he said, 'Ye make void the word
of God by your traditions.'

"SECOND. The right of private judgment. When we open the
Scriptures, we find them addressed to the people. They speak to
us; they command us to search their sacred pages; they require
us to believe what they teach, and to do what they enjoin; they
hold us personally responsible for our faith and conduct. The
promise of the inward teaching of the Spirit to guide men into the
knowledge of the truth, is made to the people of God; not to the
clergy exclusively; much less to any special order of the clergy
alone. The Apostle John says to believers, 'Ye have an unction
from the Holy One, and know all things; and the anointing which
ye have received of him abideth with you, and ye have not need
that any man teach you.' (1 John ii. 20 and 27.) The Apostle Paul
commands us (the people) to pronounce accursed an apostle, or an
angel from heaven, who teaches any thing contrary to the divinely
authenticated word of God. (Gal. i. 8.) He makes the people the
judges of truth and error as accountable to God only; he places
the rule of judgment in their hands, and holds them responsible
for their decisions. Private judgment, therefore, is not only a
right, but a duty, from which no man can exonerate himself or be
exonerated by others.

"THIRD. We believe in the universal priesthood of believers; that
is, that all men have, through Christ, access by one Spirit unto
the Father. (Eph. ii. 18.) They need no human priest to secure
their access to God. Every man for himself may come with boldness
to the throne of grace to obtain mercy and find grace to help in
time of need. (Heb. iv. 16.) 'Having, therefore, boldness to enter
into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way,
... and having a High-Priest over the house of God, we may all
draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having
our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies
washed with pure water.' (Heb. x. 19-22.) To admit, therefore,
the priesthood of the clergy, whose intervention is necessary to
secure for the people the remission of sins and other benefits of
redeeming grace, we regard as involving either the rejection of
the priesthood of Christ, or a denial of its sufficiency.

"FOURTH. We deny the perpetuity of the apostleship. As no man can
be a prophet without the spirit of prophecy, so no man can be an
apostle without the gifts of an apostle. Those gifts, as we learn
from Scripture, are plenary knowledge of the gospel, derived by
immediate revelation from Christ, (Gal. i. 12,) and personal
infallibility in teaching and ruling. What are the seals of the
apostleship, we learn from what St. Paul says to the Corinthians,
'Truly the signs of an apostle were wrought among you in all
patience, in signs, in wonders, in mighty deeds.' (2 Cor. xii.
12.) Modern prelates, although they claim apostolic authority,
do not pretend to possess the gifts on which that authority was
founded; nor do they venture to exhibit the 'signs' by which
the commission of the messengers of Christ was authenticated.
We cannot, therefore, recognize them, either individually or
collectively, as the infallible teachers and rulers of the church.

"Much less can we acknowledge the Bishop of Rome to be Christ's
vicar upon earth, possessing 'supreme rule.' We acknowledge our
adorable Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ to be the only head of the
church, which is his body. We believe that although now enthroned
at the right hand of the Majesty on high, he is still present with
his people on earth, whom he governs by his word, providence, and
spirit. We cannot, therefore, put any creature in his place, or
render to a man the obedience which is due to Christ alone.

"As the Church of Rome excommunicates all those who profess the
principles above enumerated; as we regard these principles to be
of vital importance, and intend to assert them more earnestly
than ever; as God appears to have given his seal and sanction to
these principles by making the countries where they are held the
leaders in civilization--the most eminent for liberty, order,
intelligence, and all forms of private and social prosperity--it
is evident that the barrier between us and you is, at present,
insurmountable.

"Although this letter is not intended to be either objurgatory
or controversial, it is known to all the world that there are
doctrines and usages of the church over which you preside which
Protestants believe to be not only unscriptural, but contrary
to the faith and practice of the early church. Some of those
doctrines and usages are the following, namely, The doctrine of
transubstantiation and the sacrifice of the mass; the adoration
of the host; the power of judicial absolution, (which places
the salvation of the people in the hands of the priests;) the
doctrine of the grace of orders, that is, that supernatural power
and influence are conferred in ordination by the imposition of
hands; the doctrine of purgatory; the worship of the Virgin Mary;
the invocation of saints; the worship of images; the doctrine of
reserve and of implicit faith, and the consequent withholding the
Scriptures from the people, etc.

"So long as the profession of such doctrines and submission
to such usages are required, it is obvious that there is an
impassable gulf between us and the church by which such demands
are made.

"While loyalty to Christ, obedience to the holy Scriptures,
consistent respect for the early councils of the church, and the
firm belief that pure 'religion is the foundation of all human
society,' compel us to withdraw from fellowship with the Church of
Rome, we, nevertheless, desire to live in charity with all men. We
love all who love our Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity. We cordially
recognize as Christian brethren all who worship, trust, and serve
him as their God and Saviour according to the inspired word. And
we hope to be united in heaven with all those who unite with us on
earth in saying, 'Unto him who loved us, and washed us from our
sins in his own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto
God--to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.' (Rev.
i. 6.)

"Signed in behalf of the two General Assemblies of the
Presbyterian Church in the United States of America.

"M. W. JACOBUS, PH. H. FOWLER,

"_Moderators_."

We will preface our remarks upon the foregoing document by a few words of explanation to our European readers respecting the bodies whose joint manifesto it is.