Seldom has a human being made a more magnanimous use of a large income than the departed Emily Linder. Her benevolence was on a grand scale. Her whole nature was generosity itself; but that which at first was but natural good will to all became afterward, by the pious spirit which pervaded her, an element of her religious worship. She considered herself but as the almoner of the riches God had entrusted to her. Her goodness was of that serene character which never showed aught of impatience toward those begging or initiating charities. She gave to both with equal friendliness. She contributed lavishly to public institutions for the sick and suffering. And yet what she gave to the individual poor, and such special families as were commended to her, must also have been a very considerable sum. In these simpler distributions of charity she showed a marked delicacy. The modest poor who came to her house she never allowed to be waited on by her servants, but administered to their wants herself. In some instances she bore her gifts on certain specified days to their dwellings; and in these cases she was just as systematic, and as punctual to the day and the hour, as in all things else. Christmas in her house was a festival of the poor. The lines of Clemens Brentano in his collection of sacred poems, entitled To the Benefactress, on the Occasion of her Presentation to the Poor, refer to this incident. To what extent and in what instances she served as unknown guardian angel, her intimate friends rather guessed at than knew. The character of her benevolence, generally, was piously-noiseless and still. Through hidden channels she often reached far in the distance, sustaining and rescuing (both physically and spiritually) where the need was very urgent. Often, thus, a gift flowed forth from her and sped like a sunbeam into some languishing heart. Many an obstacle has she removed from the path of a struggling child of humanity; into many a stout but wounded spirit has she infused new life and energy. Clemens Brentano termed this a "heavenly little piece of strategy."
This noiseless activity in art and benevolence did not withdraw her attention from what was going on outside, and although she never stepped beyond the natural boundaries of her position, and was of too quiet a nature to mingle generally in the strife of parties, she nevertheless, to the last year of her life, maintained a lively interest in all the great church and political questions of the day. The prodigious changes which took place in the world during the fourth period of her life, what heart would not have been profoundly stirred by them? But, however painful to her the prevailing Machiavelism of the age, the insanity of the revolutionary leaders, the pitiable confusion of the people, and the undermining of all conservative bulwarks in state and society, courage and hope still maintained the upper hand. The pressure upon the church and the Pope filled her perhaps with concern, but did not dismay her. She had the right standard, and the consolation which it brought, in judging of the destinies of the nations. When the revolutionary storms of 1848 and 1849 burst upon them and swept over Germany and Italy, she remarked: "The experience of all history, and the consolation it imparts, is just this: God allows men their way to a certain point, and where the end seems just achieved. But then is inscribed with an almighty hand, the 'Thus far.' And though his church be shaken, this is far better for us than to be reposing upon cushions of ease."
Her confidence was similarly undisturbed during the succeeding momentous years. During her attendance upon the drama of The Passion, at Oberammergau, in the year 1860, she was occupied with reflections upon the stupendous drama of passion of our own times. "There is something so fearfully grand in the present events of the world," she wrote to her friend in Frankfort, "that a certain elevation fills the soul, raising one above this little life of ours upon earth. The image in our mind of the holy father is already so spiritualized that it begins to be invested with the sanctity of the martyr. How many may have to follow in his martyr footsteps? Shall we live to see the victory? At my time of life, no; and yet a secret joy often possesses me at the thought of this glorious era. But I say with you, the great task for us all is to gain heaven. God vouchsafe this!" The latest period of German distress she lived through with the intensest sympathy. She accepted the appalling catastrophe as a severe trial, even to her own personal feelings and hopes, and recognized in this calamity the initiation of a still greater. "For me," she wrote to the same friend, "the hope of any kind of a future is now past. I must subject my heart to no more disappointment; but the mercy of God for the individual is still attainable and great; to every one accessible and possible. You belong, of course, to the younger generation, and can still dream of a sunrise for our German fatherland. The result of the present calamity, swiftly as it may seem to be plunging us into irremediable ruin, will, nevertheless, never go the length intended by the Prince of Evil. God stands above him; that is certain. The future will be a different one; a very different one, from that which we could ever surmise or guess, even the future of the church. And this future will be God's. Let that content us."
Her life was a bright contrast to the demoralization, the unrest, the arrogant selfishness of our age. She presented to those among whom she lived the picture of a self-sustained, unselfish, reposeful soul. Humility, trust in God, and compassion, this was the fundamental harmony of her daily life. Old age, which often, indeed, smooths away from the good all little imperfections and blemishes of character, rendered her still more considerate, patient, and gentle. Her love of simplicity was as great as were her means. In her own household, well systemized, careful economy; outside of this, severe, almost noticeable plainness. But to her applied the line of the poet:
"A blessing she could see in lowliness to be."
While denying herself, she gave with lavish hand to poverty and distress, to art and to the church. She moved with measured, dignified pace; but a certain religious harmony of action imparted to her being and doing an indescribable grace, which is always the accompaniment of inward purity, and a religion based upon humility.
The Abbé Haneberg, in his beautiful tribute at her grave, remarked, "She seemed, during the last twenty years of her life, to emulate the most pious of her friends and daughters of Assisi, and to aim even to outdo them, so systematic and untiring was her service to God." Of this, however, her friends knew but little. How much she thus quietly accomplished was never fully known until after her death. It will suffice here to state that in the year 1851 she informed herself, through the Superior at Assisi, of their daily regulations, and the usual succession of religious exercises. Her everyday life was identified with the daily life of the church. She appreciated the significant beauty and expressive symbolism of churchly ordinances, and in close observance joined in their celebration. To this end, she followed the Ordo of her diocese, and her favorite prayer-book was the Missal. Her knowledge of languages stood her in good stead here; for, in addition to the modern languages, she had also learned Latin, and had become sufficiently familiar with it to follow intelligently the language of the church. Cardinal Diepenbrock, in 1850, wrote to her of a lady who was occupying herself with the Latin, or church, language; "A worthy study," he remarked. "Have you not also begun it? It strikes me that Clemens was saying something about it. But perhaps you were able to get no farther than the mensa; the mensa Domini would naturally be enough for you." But she went farther than this. In her manuscripts were found Latin exercises, written under the guidance of the worthy old Bröber. One room of her spacious residence was arranged as a chapel, in which was the superb altar-piece by Eberhard, "The Triumph of the Church." This chapel was favored by the ordinariat with a Mass licence. On the anniversary of her union with the church she was accustomed to receive holy communion here; and here the departed Bishop Valentin, of Regensburg, once celebrated Mass. Here, also, she devoted daily a certain time to meditation and the perusal of the Holy Scriptures. Her favorite place of devotion, however, was the little chapel of the ducal hospital which she frequented twice a day; early in the morning, and again at evening. She had for years a quiet little place in the organ gallery where, day by day, in all weather, and at all seasons of the year, she consecrated a couple of hours to prayer.
As the years flew by, she withdrew herself more and more from the world, and sought to be "hid in God." The departure to their final home of so many friends, together with other events, served as slight admonitions, which by her thoughtful heart were not unheeded. She recognized in this matter fresh cause of gratitude to God, who was dealing so tenderly with her to the very end. "I consider it," she wrote, "a special favor of the Lord that he grants me so long a preparation for my final hour." Years previously, she had put herself in Christian readiness for her last journey, and only hoped that it might prove "a good death hour." With customary precision, she had ordered all her temporal affairs. She had even made provision as to her interment, and the final burial service. Her arrangements for the latter of these, written in a bold and beautiful hand, were dated the 7th of October, 1865. On the festival of the Epiphany, 1867, she was for the last time in her favorite little chapel of the ducal hospital. Only a few weeks previously, she had begun to feel ill, and now symptoms of dropsy suddenly developed themselves. The invalid recognized her condition with Christian resignation, but did not yet relinquish hope of a recovery. "The task now is, to resign myself and to be patient. God help me to this," she wrote at the close of January. It was her last letter. Her friend Apollonia hastened from Regensburg, and she, who, twenty-three years before, had stood at her side when received into the church, was now to stand at her death-bed. The invalid requested that her friend should remain with her one week; and exactly at the close of the week she died. During her illness she found special consolation in the house-altar, where, to her great spiritual comfort, her worthy confessor repeatedly celebrated mass. From this Eberhard altar, where she first made profession of Catholic faith and where she yearly commemorated that happy event, she now received the viaticum and extreme unction. In conformity with her wish, on the festival of St. Apollonia mass was again celebrated in her little chapel. It was her last mass, and the final union of the two friends in holy sacrament. She seemed now to rejoice in her approaching dissolution as though it were a return home. One morning as her priest entered, she stretched out her arms and exclaimed, "May I—oh! may I go home?" "Yes, the guardian angel accompanies you, he guides you thither," was the reply. Thereupon she was silent, remained in deep meditation, and spoke but little after. Yet she seemed to participate in all that transpired; if prayer were uttered, she prayed also; to all who drew near she gave a friendly glance, but, for the most part, remained absorbed and still.
On the day preceding her death, she summoned all her strength, and with difficult effort gave expression to several wishes, the last of her earthly life. She recalled an admirable artist, whom she held in high personal esteem, from whom she had long desired a picture as an addition to her collection. She directed a very considerable sum to be sent to him for a historical picture, which was now to be painted for the museum at Bale. The future of her poor, also, such as had been accustomed to receive little charities, engaged her thoughts; she desired that these charities should be continued until they had found other benefactors. Her last words were in allusion to Jerusalem. She bethought herself of the "Watchers at the Holy Sepulchre," (of the order of St. Francis,) and also of the "Zion Society," to both of which she had made yearly contributions, and which she now similarly remembered. Thus had her life its characteristic close. Her last mental activity was exercised in works of charity, of art, and of religion. With a glance at Jerusalem and the sepulchre of her Saviour, she now went forward toward the new Jerusalem. Her end was the falling asleep of a child. In the early morning of the 12th of February, 1867, without a single death-struggle, she sank into slumber—quietly, painlessly, peacefully.