Nothing now remains but to describe the closing scene of F. Baker's life. I have already mentioned that his constitution had shown symptoms of giving way under the fatigues of his missionary labors. Nevertheless, he still continued in the constant and active discharge of his priestly duties, and no solicitude in regard to his health was felt by any of his brethren, with whom these periods of physical infirmity wore an ordinary occurrence. On one Sunday, a few weeks before his death, his strength failed him while he was singing High Mass, and he was obliged to continue it in a low voice. He was also unable to continue the abstinence of Lent, and was obliged to ask for a dispensation, which I believe never occurred with him before. His appearance was pale and languid, and the fulfilment of his duties evidently cost him an effort. We had been accustomed to sing together two of the three parts of the Passion on Palm Sunday, ever since the church had been opened; but, in making arrangements for the services of the Holy Week for this year, he remarked that we would be obliged to omit singing the Passion as usual. He had marked himself, however, on the schedule of offices which was posted up in the library, to preach both on Passion Sunday and Palm Sunday. His last Sunday sermon was preached on the Second Sunday of Lent, March 12. The subject was "Heaven." The Wednesday evening following, he volunteered to preach in the place of one of his brethren who was unwell, about an hour before the service commenced, and left the supper-table to prepare himself. He took for the emergency the sermon which he had first preached as a missionary, on "The Necessity of Salvation;" and this was the last regular discourse which he delivered. On the following Sunday, after Vespers, he gave a short conference to the Rosary Society; and after this his voice was never heard again in exhortation or instruction. About this time, there were several cases of typhus fever in the parish, and F. Baker had in some way imbibed the poison, to which his delicate state of health rendered him peculiarly susceptible. On the Fourth Sunday of Lent, March 26, the first symptoms of illness showed themselves. On the preceding evening he heard confessions as usual, until about nine o'clock, after which he came to the room of one of the fathers and made his own confession, as he did habitually every week. The next morning he said Mass for the last time, at half-past eight, for the children of the Sunday-school. As I passed his door at half-past ten, to go down to High Mass, he met me in the corridor, and remarked that he felt too sick to go down to the sanctuary. From this time he came no more again to the table or the recreation of the community, but kept his room. Nothing was thought of his indisposition, and it was by accident that his physician, who dined that day with the community, saw him and prescribed for him in the afternoon. The next day three of the fathers left the house for a mission, and bade him good-by as usual, without a thought of anxiety on either side. F. Baker remained on Sunday and Monday in the same state, dressing himself every morning, and sitting up at intervals, but usually lying on the bed, and occupying himself about some matters of business. He wrote several notes, and dictated others, some concerning the articles he had ordered for the sanctuary, and others concerning some sick persons or penitents for whom he had a special care. During this time, no symptoms of typhus had appeared, but his complaint appeared to be a slight attack of pneumonia. On Monday evening he went down by himself to the bath-room and took a hot bath, after which he kept his bed entirely. The superior of the house, who was engaged in the mission on Staten Island, came every day to visit him, and had already detected an incipient tendency to delirium, which awakened in his mind an anxiety, which, however, was not shared by anyone else. On Wednesday, however, although he retained control over his faculties, his brain began evidently to show a state of morbid excitability. He remarked that the bells of the house had a strange sound, and fancied that his breathing and pulsations were all set to a regular rhythmical measure, and gave out musical sounds. When he was alone and his eyes shut, he said that a brilliant array of figures continually passed before him, and that he seemed to be hurried away by a rapid motion like that of a railway carriage. During that evening he was more decidedly wandering in his mind, although he became quiet, and slept nearly all night. On Thursday morning the poison of typhus had filled his brain completely, and he lay in a dull, stupid state, unconscious of what was said to him, and incapable of uttering a rational word. This gave place after a time to a more violent form of delirium, during which he talked incessantly in an incoherent manner, and could with difficulty be kept in a quiet position or induced to swallow any nourishment or medicine. On Friday morning the danger of a fatal termination was evident, as the disease continued to progress, and the symptoms of pneumonia were also aggravated. The superior of the house was sent for, and came over in the afternoon. Dr. Van Buren and Dr. Clarke, two of the most eminent physicians in town, were called in for consultation by Dr. Hewit, the attending physician, and information of F. Baker's illness was sent to his sister, who came immediately from Baltimore to see him. On Saturday evening the typhus fever had spent its violence, reason returned, and from this time F. Baker remained in a weak but tranquil state until his departure. He had been removed from his own room to the library, a large and airy apartment, where every thing about him was arranged in a neat, orderly, and cheerful manner, and he was attended and carefully watched night and day by his physician, his brethren, and his nurse. The violence of his fever had prostrated his strength so completely, that he was unable to resist the severe attack of pneumonia which accompanied it, and which medical skill and care were unable to subdue. The feeble vital force which still remained gradually subsided during the next three days, under the progress of this disease, although his friends continued to hope against all appearances for his recovery, and seemed almost to take it for granted that God would surely hear their prayers and spare his life. During all this time he was rational and collected, recognising all his friends, but unable to speak more than a few brief sentences that were connected and intelligible. He desired his sister to remain with him, and she did so during a great portion of the time. He expressed his perfect willingness and readiness to die, and made an effort to repeat audibly some prayers, but without success. He manifested his desire for absolution by signs, and it was given to him, together with the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, on Sunday. On Tuesday, the Holy Viaticum, for which he had asked, was given him, at about half-past ten in the morning. He received it with perfect consciousness, and remained quiet, free from pain, and without becoming perceptibly worse, until one. After the fathers had gone down to dinner, he asked his nurse for his cap, which was brought to him and placed in his hand. He then asked for his habit, and said he would dress and go down to dinner with the community. Soon after, a change was observed in him by the watchful eye of the father who had been his bosom friend during their common missionary career, and who had passed so many hours of the day and night by his bedside during his sickness with more than the devotion of a brother; and several of his particular friends were sent for, that they might see him once more before he died. The two fathers who were at home, his physician, his only and beloved sister, a lady who had been his chief aid in the care of the sanctuary, and another, who was one of his converts, surrounded his bedside, where he lay, the picture of placid repose and holy calm, quietly, gently, and imperceptibly breathing his last, until four o'clock, when his spirit passed away to God, without a struggle or a sign of agony, leaving his countenance unruffled, and his form as composed as a statue. Those who saw him after death have said that, about an hour after his departure, his appearance was most beautiful, as he lay just dressed in his sacerdotal vestments, his majestic and finely chiselled brow and features as yet untouched by the finger of decay. The vestments in which F. Baker was dressed had been prepared by himself only three weeks before, that they might be ready in case of the death of one of the community. His body was placed in a metallic case, enclosed in a rosewood coffin, and laid in state in the church. These arrangements were not completed until late in the night, and the people did not therefore begin to visit the sacred remains until the next morning; from which time until the sepulture, crowds of the faithful were coming to the church during every hour, both of the day and the night. Requiem Masses were said by all the priests in the house on Wednesday and Thursday. The mission at Staten Island closed on Tuesday evening. The fathers who were there were not made acquainted with the extreme danger of F. Baker, and the intelligence of his death was not sent to them until Wednesday morning, when their labors were all completed. They returned home to find the body of their late companion lying in the church, and the household and parish overwhelmed with sorrow. Usually, in a religious community, the death of a member is taken very much as the loss of a soldier is regarded by his comrades, schooled as they are to control their feelings, and to be ready at any moment to expose their lives in the discharge of their duty. But in a small band like ours, which had been through so many trials and vicissitudes in company, and where all the members had been continually in the most constant and intimate association with each other, it was impossible not to feel in the deepest and keenest manner the loss of one of our number, the first one called away during the fourteen years of a missionary life. To an infant congregation like ours, the loss of a priest like F. Baker was truly irreparable. Besides this, each one felt that his loss as a friend and brother was a personal grief equal to that of losing his nearest and dearest relative by the tie of blood. This sorrow was shared by the whole parish, by all his friends, and by the faithful everywhere in the parishes where he had preached and labored. Many letters of sympathy and condolence were sent from all quarters, and not Catholics only, but numbers of others also, who had respected the virtues of the holy Catholic priest, testified their regret at his death, and their sympathy with our loss. The Rev. Dr. Osgood, a distinguished Unitarian clergyman of New York, sent a small painting representing a bouquet of various kinds of lilies, as a memorial of respect, in the name of his congregation, accompanied by a very kind note. Several other Protestant clergymen were present at the funeral services; and, indeed, the manifestations of respect for F. Baker's memory were universal.
The funeral obsequies were of necessity accelerated more than his friends would have desired, so that few from distant places were able to attend them. A few intimate friends from Baltimore, and some clergymen from places out of town, were, however, present; a large number of the clergy of New York and its vicinity; and as great a number of the faithful as the church could contain. The funeral was on Thursday in Passion Week, April 6, two days after the decease. The previous Thursday was F. Baker's birthday, and the anniversary of his conversion to the Catholic Church also occurred within the week of his death and burial. He had just completed the forty-fifth year of his age, and was in the ninth year of his priesthood. The following Sunday was the twelfth anniversary of his formal reconciliation to the Church, in the chapel of the Sisters' of Charity, in Baltimore. Early on Thursday morning, four private Masses of Requiem were said for the repose of his soul in the church. At the usual hour for High Mass on Sundays, a solemn Mass of Requiem was celebrated by the superior of the house, in presence of the Archbishop, who performed the closing rite of absolution, and a short funeral discourse was preached. The coffin was ornamented with the sacerdotal vestments, the chalice, and the missionary crucifix of the deceased, and covered with wreaths of flowers. The altar was deeply draped in mourning, and F. Baker's confessional was also similarly draped. Never did these exterior symbols indicate a more sincere and universal sorrow on the part of all who participated in them. It was a very difficult task to summon up sufficient fortitude to perform these last sad rites. The voice of the celebrant was interrupted by his tears; the sub-deacon faltered as he sang the elevating and comforting words of the Epistle; the choir-boys showed in their candid and ingenuous faces their sorrow for the one who had trained them up in the sanctuary; the choir, composed, not of professional singers, but of members of the congregation, undertook their solemn task with trembling; every countenance was sad and every eye moistened, in the assemblage of the clergy who sat in white-robed ranks nearest the sanctuary, and of the laity who filled the church. I had the last duty of friendship to perform, in preaching the funeral sermon; and the wish to do full justice to F. Baker, and to satisfy the eager desire of all present to hear something of his life, enabled me to fulfil this duty with composure, and restrain the tide of emotion which I saw swelling all around me, quieted only by the hallowing and tranquillizing influence of the sacred rites of the Church, and the high, celestial hope inspired by the contemplation of a life so noble and a death so holy. The music was in the sweet, plaintive, solemn style of the true ecclesiastical chant; all the means of celebrating the holy rites of the obsequies had been prepared by F. Baker's own pious and careful hand; his own spirit seemed to hover over the spot, and a divine consolation stole gently over all. Sad as it is, there is nothing so beautiful, so soothing, so elevating to the soul, as the funeral of a holy priest, who has achieved his course and attained the crown of his labors. Many of those who were present remained for a long time after the service was completed, and some were still found there unwilling to leave the spot, at nightfall. The remains were taken from the church to St. Patrick's Cathedral, escorted by a band of young men, and followed by a train of carriages, and by others on foot, although it rained heavily; the Vicar-General recited the concluding prayers of the ritual; the coffin was placed in the episcopal vault next to that of the late archbishop; a few wreaths of flowers were placed upon it, the entrance was closed, and all withdrew; leaving the earthly form of the departed to the silent repose of the tomb.
For some days after, a portion of the mourning drapery was left on the altar, and requiems continued to be offered by all the priests of the community. Many Masses were also said by other priests in various parts of the country, and prayers offered by the people, although the common sentiment of all was, that the one for whom they were offered was already among the blessed in heaven. On Saturday evening, as we all went to our confessionals, and a large congregation of people was assembled in the church, preparing for their Easter duty, a peculiarly holy calm seemed to pervade the spot. The people were hushed and still, unusually intent upon their devotions. The penitents of F. Baker looked with sadness upon the place where, just two weeks before, he had sat for the last time in the tribunal of penance, and came weeping to some one of the other fathers to request him to take the direction of their consciences. It was a sad Holy Week; and a difficult task to us, wearied with labor, and some with watching, oppressed with a grief which time and repose had not yet diminished, to fulfil the arduous duties of the season. Our greatest consolation was in the sympathy manifested by our people, and in the proof they gave of the love and gratitude which our labors had awakened in their hearts. Easter Sunday came; the altar was superbly decorated with the choicest flowers of the season, the triumphant chant of the Church resounded as usual; but all felt that the one whose presence in the sanctuary and whose eloquent voice had given the day one of its greatest charms, was gone forever; and besides, the gloom of the great crime committed on Good Friday had overspread the whole nation, and the drapery of universal mourning had turned the city into one great necropolis. The admirable pastoral letter of the archbishop on the assassination of the President was read in all the churches, giving eloquent expression to the indignation and grief which oppressed all Christian and all honest and just hearts; and never was there seen an Easter more sad and mournful, more like a day of unusual humiliation and sorrow, than that Easter Sunday; which had been anticipated as a day of peculiar joy and thanksgiving for the cessation of bloody war and the restoration of peace.
It is in just such times as these, however, that we appreciate most fully the strength and support which is given us by our holy faith, the Divine Sacrament of the Altar, and the grace of God, and that those who have given themselves to a religious life learn the inestimable blessing of their vocation, which raises them above all private and all public tribulation. A few days brought back serenity and cheerfulness to our little community, and we took new courage from the blessed death of our companion, closing so beautifully his holy life, to resume quietly and resolutely our ordinary duties, and to rely more completely on the providence of God; trusting that we had gained an advocate in heaven, and hoping to persevere like him to the end. His course was short, and his reward speedily gained. What a happiness for him that he listened to the voice of God; and, as his day was declining to its close, though he knew it not, gathered up his strength and courage to leave all and run that brief and swift race, which in later years gained for him the brilliant and unfading crown of a true and faithful priest of Jesus Christ, who had brought thousands of souls into the way of justice; and had practised himself that Christian perfection which he preached to others!
There must be many young men equally gifted, and fitted to accomplish an equally apostolic work, to whom God has given the same vocation. What hidden consequences were involved in the result of that struggle and deliberation which was the crisis of grace in the life of Francis Baker! What a loss to himself and to the Church of God, if he had proved cowardly and unfaithful! The simple question before his mind was one of personal obedience to the commandment of Christ to arise and follow Him. But because of his obedience, God chose him to be the instrument of an amount of good to others which would be sufficient to enrich with merit a priesthood of fifty years. The immediate fruits of his own labors in preaching the word of God and administering His sacraments can never perish. The fruits of his example and his teaching will, I trust, continue to multiply and increase after his death in rich abundance. If the blessing of God perpetuates and extends the congregation which he aided in forming, and which, so far as we can see, could not have been established without him, his character and spirit will be perpetuated in those who will for all time venerate him as a spiritual father, and imitate him as one of their most perfect models. If he is to have no imitators and no successors, it will be because God can find none among our choice and gifted youth, who have enough of sincerity, generosity, and the spirit of self-sacrifice, to obey the inspirations of His Divine Spirit, and consecrate themselves to His glory and the good of their fellow-men. The need is pressing, the career is glorious and inviting, and the vocation of God will not be wanting. There is no hope for religion, except in the multiplication of priests animated with the apostolic spirit. If the example of Francis Baker enkindles the spirit of emulation in some generous youthful hearts; and encourages some timid, fearful souls who are vacillating between the Church of God and the interests of this world, to imitate his fidelity to the voice of conscience; the end I have had in view will be accomplished. If not, it will stand as a perpetual reproach to a frivolous and unworthy generation, incapable of appreciating and imitating high Christian virtue. And now I lay the last stone on this monument of one who was once the friend and bosom companion of my youth; afterwards my spiritual child; then my brother in the priesthood; and who is now exalted to such a height above me that my eye and my mind can no longer follow him.