Such, my hearers, had been the life, and such the character of our distinguished fellow-citizen and beloved fellow-worshipper; and such was he to the last, through all the agonies of a most distressing illness. In the midst of health and usefulness, in the full discharge of the duties of life, and in the full enjoyment of its satisfactions, the summons suddenly comes to him to leave it. And he meets the summons with the utmost equanimity and composure, with the submission of a philosopher and with the resignation of a Christian. He certainly had much to live for-few have more-but he gave up all without repining or complaint. He said he should have liked to live a little longer, to complete his great work, and see his younger children grown up and settled in life. "But I am perfectly happy," he added, "and ready to go, and entirely resigned to the will of Providence." He arranged all his affairs, gave his directions with minuteness, and dictated and signed his last will and testament. While his strength permitted, he continued to attend to the necessary affairs of his office, and on the day previous to his death put his name to an important instrument. In the intervals of pain he prepared, as I have already remarked, the remaining copy and corrected the proof sheets of the fourth volume of his great work, the printing of which was nearly finished at the time of his death. It is a little remarkable that the last page that he read was the one thousandth. It was gratifying to him to find that his mind was unenfeebled by disease and pain; and one day, after solving one of the hardest problems in the book, he exclaimed, in his enthusiastic way, "I feel that I am Nathaniel Bowditch still-only a little weaker." He continued, indeed, in all respects, the same man to the last. He did not think that this was the time to put on a new face or assume a new character. His feelings were unaffected, his manners unchanged, by the prospect before him. He seemed to those about him only to be going on a long journey. To the end, he manifested the same cheerfulness, nay pleasantry, which he had when in health, without, however, the least admixture of levity. In his great kindness, he exerted himself to see many friends, every one of whom, I believe, will bear testimony to his calm, serene state of mind. The words which he spoke in those precious interviews they will gather up and treasure in their memory, and will never forget them so long as they live.* She certainly will not, to whom, when on her taking leave of him she had said "Good night," he replied, * Will the Chief Magistrate of the Commonwealth, will the President of the University, ever forget their interviews with the dying philosopher? The Governor, in his beautiful address to the Academy, on introducing the Resolutions that were passed in honor of their illustrious associate, after briefly describing his interview, alludes, in a very modest and touching manner, to the commendation passed by the departing sage on a recent and most painful act of his executive authority. The Governor should know that the language of Dr. Bowditch is but the expression of the public mind, and that he will be sustained in all his measures to maintain the majesty and supremacy of the laws, and preserve the public order and peace. "No, my dear, say not 'Good night,' but 'Good morning,' for the next time we meet will be on the morning of the resurrection." One day, toward the close of his lingering illness, after he had himself given up all hope of recovery, he asked one who stood by him what were the two Greek words which signify "easy death." The word not immediately suggesting itself to the person, and he having mentioned over several phrases and combinations of words, Dr. Bowditch said, "No, you have not got the right word; but you will find it in Pope's Correspondence." The person found the letter, which was the last that Dr. Arbuthnot* wrote to his friend. The conclusion of it is as follows; "A recovery, in my case, and at my age, is impossible. The kindest wish of my friends is euthanasia." On hearing this read, Dr. Bowditch said, "Yes, that is the word, euthanasia. That letter I read forty years ago, and I have not seen it since. It made an impression on my mind which is still fresh. It struck me, at the time I read it, that the good physi Dr. Arbuthnot was an eminent physician and brilliant wit in the time of Queen Anne, the contemporary and friend of Swift and Pope. He died in 1735. Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Pope, says of him, Arbuthnot was a man of great comprehension, skilful in his practice, versed in the sciences, acquainted with ancient literature, and able to animate his mass of knowledge by a bright and active imagination; a scholar, with great brilliance of wit; a wit, who, in the crowd of life, retained and discovered a noble ardor of religious zeal; a man estimable for his learning, amiable for his life, and venerable for his piety." cian who wrote it would certainly have an easy death. It could not be otherwise. The excellent, the virtuous, must be happy in their death." He afterwards frequently recurred to this subject, and the day previous to his departure, he said, "This is, indeed, euthanasia." Through the whole of his illness he manifested the same happy and delightful frame of mind. His room did not appear like the chamber of sickness and dissolution. The light of his serene and placid countenance dispelled all gloom, and his cheerful composure robbed death of all its bitterness and anguish. He exemplified in his own case the sentiment so beautifully expressed by Hafiz, the Persian poet, which he loved to repeat :— "On parents' knees, a naked, new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st, whilst all around thee smiled; Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep." He did not wish to see those about him look sad and gloomy. On one occasion he said, "I feel no gloom within me; why should you wear it on your faces?" And then he called for Bryant's Poems, and desired them to read his favorite piece, "The Old Man's Funeral." "Why weep ye then for him, who, having won And then he went on and commented on the remaining lines of the poem, pointing out those which he thought were descriptive of himself, and modestly disclaiming others that were commendatory, as not belonging to him; but which all impartial persons would unite in saying were singularly applicable to his character. On the morning of his death, when his sight was very dim, and his voice almost gone, he called his children around his bedside, and arranging them in the order of age, pointed to and addressed each by name, and said, "You see I can distinguish you all; and I now give you all my parting blessing. The time is come. Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word." These were his last words. After this he was heard to whisper, in a scarcely audible tone, the words "pretty, pleasant, beautiful." But it cannot be known, whether he was thinking of his own situation as pleasant, in being thus surrounded at such a time by those he loved, or whether he “snatched a fearful joy" in a glimpse of the spiritual world. Soon after this he quietly breathed away his soul, and departed. "And the end of that man was peace." Such a death alone was wanting to complete such a life and crown and seal such a character.-He died on Friday, the 16th day of March, and I am now pronouncing his eulogy on the last day of his 65th year.* The disease of which Dr. Bowditch died was found, by a post mortem examination, to be a schirrus in the stomach, a disease of the same type with that which caused the death of Napoleon Buonaparte. |