The winter of 1839 and 1840 was a particularly cold and trying one, and Father Lemke was obliged to travel great distances during Lent, that not one of the scattered flock might be without the means of approaching the sacraments. As ill-fortune would have it, he met with a serious accident, which made it at last impossible for him to put his foot to the ground. It was just at this most inopportune moment that news reached him from Loretto that Gallitzin had fallen ill; that he had just managed to say Mass on Easter Sunday, but had been unable to preach, and had been obliged at length to take to his bed.
Father Lemke immediately sent a messenger to Loretto, who came back with the news that he had seen the dear old man; that he looked very ill, but that he had said Father Lemke was not to dream of coming, but was to take good care of himself; that if there should be any danger he would be sure to send for him. But a friend had whispered that the saintly Father was really very ill, and that it would be well if his coadjutor lost no time in coming. Not long after Gallitzin's old sledge arrived, the driver bringing a petition from the doctor (who loved the old priest as his father) to come at once, as there was but little hope. In spite of his own sorry plight, Father Lemke immediately set out upon the journey; and on arriving found that the doctor was only waiting for his coming before performing a necessary operation.
Gallitzin required but little preparation. He was perfectly resigned to the will of God,—ready for anything. "I have made my will," he said. "I do hope that I can depart in peace so far as that is concerned, and that everyone will receive his due, and that there will even be a trifle over. Now my only desire is to receive the last Sacraments, and then you may do with me whatever you like."
After midnight Father Lemke said Mass for him in his room, during which he received Holy Communion with most intense devotion. The operation brought some temporary relief; but the whole system was so thoroughly worn out his community realized they were to lose their dearly beloved Father and friend.
The news spread like lightning that he was dying; and from all the neighborhood there poured into Loretto a very stream of pilgrims, old and young, all anxious to see him once more and to receive his blessing. So great did the numbers become that it was found necessary to prevent their entrance into the sick-room. But this had to be done with the utmost caution; for the dying man himself seemed pleased to see them all, and had a sweet smile and a kindly word for every comer.
But at length a man came for whom Gallitzin had no smile. He had repaid all the good priest's kindness with extreme ingratitude, and had of late years given way to intemperance and other evil habits. Him the dying priest looked at sternly, while he lifted up a warning finger. This silent sermon had a wonderful effect: the prodigal fell upon his knees, and, weeping bitterly, confessed his wickedness and promised to amend. He kept his promise. And Gallitzin, on his side, did not forget him; for on the day of his death, after having a long time lain still and unconscious, he whispered this man's name. It seemed to pain him that he had not left him anything, as he had to his other former servants. Father Lemke caught these words: "Poor scamp—if it could still be done—not forget him." Father Lemke, of course, respected the dying wish.
Two days before his death Gallitzin had the consolation of a visit from another priest, an old friend of his—Father Heyden, of Bedford. On the evening of the 6th of May the end had come. Father Heyden said the Prayers for the Dying, while Father Lemke held a lighted candle in Gallitzin's hand. As the prayers ended Father Lemke felt that the pulse had stopped and another beautiful soul had flown to the Feet of its Redeemer. A bystander, gazing at the dead priest, exclaimed: "Does he not look like a grand old conqueror who had just won his victory?"
The testimony of one of his fellow priests is too beautiful to be omitted. Writing three years before Gallitzin's death, he said: "I do not see much of the venerable Father, for I live twelve miles distant. Besides he has lived, so to speak, alone, for forty-two years, and he is reserved and self-contained. But he is the noblest, purest, most Christian man I ever met. He requires to be well known.... Now that I live without any consolation, and have, thank God, gained sufficient mastery over self no longer to wish for any consolation that this world could give me, I believe that He will come to comfort me who alone can give comfort worthy of the name. We have abundant proof of this here. For have I not Gallitzin before me? He gave up everything—everything; and, best of all, he gave himself. Therefore he now goes about enshrouded in an abiding peace, and an angel looks out of his calm eyes; and I feel that at any moment he could lay himself down smiling to sleep his last sleep like a weary child. Can anything higher or better be striven for or attained?"
Gallitzin's funeral told something of the universal veneration in which he was held. In spite of bad weather, mourners came a distance of forty and fifty miles to pay him the last tribute of love and gratitude. It would have taken but a few minutes to convey the body from the presbytery to its resting-place; but his friends had a pretty thought. They carried their dear Father through the gardens and fields and meadows, and lastly through the little town—all of which had been his creation, his life's work,—that he might once more bless it all and dedicate it anew to Him to follow whom he had, in the most literal sense of the word, "left all things."