Thirteen days after the date of this letter, the 12th February, 1834, Schleiermacher breathed his last. He died of inflammation of the lungs. The subjoined account of his last days and hours was drawn up for their most intimate circle by his widow, who survived him only six years:—
“For twelve days our beloved father had been suffering from a cough and great hoarseness, and though bright and cheerful, he looked very pale. To our anxious entreaties that he would be more careful of his health, he always replied with the assurance that he felt perfectly well, that what he was then suffering under was a mere outward ailment, and that it did not in the least interfere with his inward health.
“The evening of Thursday, 5th February, was the last that was spent in cheerful tranquillity in the home circle. In the night, the disease began with the most fearful pains in every part of the body (he had had similar symptoms the previous night, but they had passed off, and he had not mentioned the fact), so that our dear father said that he could not describe where the pain was, but that every fibre of his body ached. His looks were those of a dying person, and he expressed his firm belief that he would not survive. I had sent immediately for the doctor, who declared the case to be very serious; but the remedies applied by him relieved the pains after a few hours, and the patient lay calm and without suffering in his bed.
“On the Sunday there was a consultation of four physicians. The inflammation increased rapidly on this day, and in a few hours attained its highest degree. The patient was twice bled in one day, and though the doctors still gave hope, it was evident to those around that they did not entertain any themselves. I did not move from his bedside. The children and friends, who waited on my bidding in the next room, brought me everything I asked for. I required no other aid in nursing him, and the utmost quiet had been recommended. I obeyed the order so conscientiously, that I did not cause him to speak even one dear word to me.
“He often assured me that he did not suffer so much as, perhaps, it appeared. During the whole of his illness, his mind was calm, collected, and gentle; he obeyed punctually every order of the doctor, never uttered a complaint or a murmur, and was throughout friendly and patient, though serious, and as if his thoughts were turned inwardly.
“On the Monday morning, the physician, after examining his pulse and his features, announced the approach of death.
“The following are a few of his last, precious words that I have been able to retain. Once he called me to his bedside, and said, ‘I am, in fact, in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness (he had been taking opium, which caused him to doze frequently), but inwardly I enjoy heavenly moments. I feel constrained to think the profoundest speculative thoughts, and they are to me identical with the deepest religious feelings.’ Another time he raised his hand, and said, in a very solemn tone, ‘Here light a sacrificial flame.’ Another time, again, ‘To the children I bequeath the saying from St. John: “Love one another.”’ Again: ‘The dear children, what a blessing they are to us!’ Again: ‘I charge you to greet all my friends, and to tell them how sincerely I have loved them.’ ‘How I rejoice at the thought of our silver-wedding, and of Hildchen’s wedding; I seem already to be enjoying the precious days. I would willingly have remained longer with you and the children;’ and when I expressed a hope that it might still be so, he said, ‘Do not deceive yourself, dear heart,’ and then, with the deepest tenderness, added, ‘There is still much for you to endure.’ He asked to see the children; but when I begged him to avoid everything that could cause him emotion, he at once submitted, and was content that one of them at a time should come into the room to bring something. He asked several times who was in the next room, and when I named the dear friends, and told him that they were engaged in silent prayer with the children, he seemed pleased.
“The last morning his sufferings greatly increased. He complained of excessive internal heat, and the first and the last murmur escaped his lips in the words: ‘Lord, I suffer much!’ His features assumed entirely the character of death, the death film spread over his eyes, the death struggle had been fought. He then placed his two fingers on his eye, as was his habit when reflecting deeply, and began to speak.
“‘I have never clung to the dead letter, and we have the atoning death of Jesus Christ, his body and his blood. I have ever believed, and still believe, that the Lord Jesus gave the communion in water and in wine.’1
“While saying this he raised himself up, his countenance lighted up, his voice became clear and strong. He then asked with priestly solemnity: ‘Do you agree with me in this belief, that the Lord Jesus consecrated the water also that was in the wine?’ to which we replied with a loud yes! ‘Then let us take the Communion: the wine for you, the water for me,’ he added solemnly; ‘but there is no time to fetch G——,2 quick! quick! Let no one take offence at the form.’ The necessary things having been brought in while we waited in solemn silence, an expression of heavenly rapture spread over his features, a strange lustre shone in his eyes, a look of beaming love fell upon us all, and after a few devout words of prayer, he commenced the holy ceremony. He first gave me the bread, then each of the other persons present, and lastly himself, pronouncing each time in a distinct voice, the words, ‘Take eat,’ &c. So loud, indeed, was his voice, that the children, who were kneeling at the door of the adjoining room, heard him quite plainly.
“In like manner he gave to each the wine with the usual words; then addressing himself likewise, he took the water, and then said: ‘On these words of the scripture I rely, they are the foundation of my faith.’ After he had pronounced the blessing, his eyes turned once more to me with a look full of love, and he said, ‘In this love and communion we are, and ever will remain united.’ He sank back on his pillow. The expression of heavenly rapture still dwelt on his countenance. After some minutes he said—‘Now I can no longer remain here;’ and in a little while he added—‘Place me in another position.’ We placed him on his side. He breathed heavily several times, and life was gone. In the meanwhile the children had come in and were kneeling round his bed. His eyes closed gradually.”
THE END.
← Visit to Scandinavia · Contents