ARNOLD'S LAST LESSONS. 77 the cardinal defect of our educational system is that it is not religious enough. Yet, from the vivid pages of history, what lessons might not a judicious teacher draw in illustration of the workings of God's providence? How would a survey of the physical aspects of earth assist him in demonstrating the Divine wisdom, and, yet more, the Divine love! And how, in every branch of study, in every stage of intellectual progress, might not the pupil be brought to reverence the beauty of holiness, and to receive into his soul the sacred lights of honour, and truthfulness, and love! To do true and lofty deeds, to live the life of a true and noble spirit,—this is the great lesson which the teacher should inculcate hour by hour, and day by day. But how is it to be taught if we draw a broad line of demarcation in our every-day teaching between the "religious" and the "secular "? But we have digressed from our subject. On the 5th of June, at the end of the summer half-year, and before the final dispersion of the boys for the holidays, Dr. Arnold preached in Rugby Chapel what proved to be his farewell sermon. In the preceding fortnight he had suffered from a feverish attack, but he appeared to have recovered his usual health, and also his usual spirits and energy, and was eagerly looking forward to his accustomed holiday at Fox How, his pretty rural residence "among the lakes." On Saturday, the 11th, after examining some of his pupils in Ranke's " History of the Popes," he was engaged in finishing the business of the school, distributing the prizes, and taking leave of boys whose school course was closed. By his own form, or class, it was afterwards remembered, with pathetic interest, that the last subject he had set them for an exercise was “Domus Ultima": the last translation for Latin verses was from Spenser's lines on the death of Sir Philip Sydney, in his "Ruins of Time "; and the last words with which he closed his last lecture on the New Testament were uttered in comment on the passage of St. John : "It doth not yet appear what we shall be ; but we know that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is." "So, too," he said, "in the Corinthians-'For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face!' Yes," he added, with fervour, "the mere contemplation of Christ shall transform us into His likeness." At nine o'clock he gave a supper, according to custom, to the Sixth Form boys of his own house. They were impressed by the vivacity and cheerfulness of his manner, as he spoke of the end of the half-year, and of the pleasure with which he looked forward to his visit to Fox How. Before retiring to rest he made an entry in his diary, which, read by the light of what afterwards occurred, carries with it a solemn significance: "Saturday evening, June 11th.-The day after to-morrow is my birthday, if I am permitted to live to see it-my forty-seventh birthday since my birth. How large a portion of my life on earth is already passed! And then-what is to follow this life? How visibly my outward work seems contracting and softening away into the gentler employments of old age. In one sense, how nearly can I say, 'Vixi!' And I thank God that, as far as ambition is concerned, it is, I trust, fully mortified. I have no desire other than to step back from my present place in the world, and not to rise to a higher. Still there are works which, with God's permission, I would do before the night cometh ; especially that great work, if I might be permitted to take part in it. But, above all, let me mind my own personal work, to keep myself pure and zealous and believing, labouring to do God's will, yet not anxious that it should be done by me rather than by others if God disapproves of my doing it." Between five and six o'clock on Sunday morning he awoke with a sharp pain across his chest, which he mentioned to his wife, on her asking him how he felt, adding that he had experienced it slightly on the preceding day, both before and after bathing. "He then again composed himself to sleep; but her watchful care, always anxious, even to nervousness, at the least indication of illness, was at once awakened, and on finding from him that the pain increased, and that it seemed to pass from his chest to his left arm, her alarm was so much roused, from a remembrance of having heard of this in connection with angina pectoris and its fatal consequences, that, in spite of his remonstrances, she rose and called up an old servant, whom they usually consulted in cases of illness. Reassured by her confidence that there was no ground for fear, but still anxious, Mrs. Arnold returned to his room. She observed him, as she CHEERFULNESS AND PATIENCE IN SUFFERING. 79 was dressing herself, lying still but with his hands clasped, his lips moving, and his eyes raised upwards as if engaged in prayer, when all at once he repeated firmly and earnestly, And Jesus said unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen thou hast believed; blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have believed;' and soon afterwards, with a solemnity of manner and depth of utterance which spoke more than the words themselves, But if ye be without chastisement, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards and not sons. But as the symptoms did not pass away, Mrs. Arnold at length despatched messengers for medical assistance. At a quarter to seven it arrived. To the physician's inquiries the sick man replied calmly and clearly, though evidently suffering very seriously. In the absence of Mrs. Arnold, who had gone to call up her son, he asked what his illness was; the physician answered, disease of the heart. In his peculiar manner of recognition he exclaimed, "Ha!" and then on being asked if he had ever in his life fainted, "No, never." "Had he ever had difficulty of breathing?" 'No, never." "If he had ever had sharp pain in the chest ?" "No, never." had ever had disease of the chest?" died of it." "What age was he?" 'Fifty-three." "Was it suddenly fatal ?" "Yes, suddenly fatal." He then asked, "If disease of the heart was a common disease?" "Not very common." "Where do we find it most?" "In large towns, I think." 66 Why?" Two or three causes were mentioned. "Is it generally fatal ? " “Yes, I am afraid it is.” "If any of his family "Yes, my father had—he The physician quitted the house for medicines, leaving Mrs. Arnold, who by this time was fully aware of her husband's danger. Her son now entered the room, but without any serious apprehension. On his coming up to the bed, his father, with his usual gladness of expression towards him, asked, "How is your deafness, my boy?" (he had been suffering from it the night before), and then, in playful allusion to an old jest against him, "You must not stay here-you know you do not like a sick room.” Presently his father said to him, in a low voice, "My son, thank God for me," and as his son did not at once catch his meaning, he went on saying, "Thank God, Tom, for giving me this pain: I have suffered so little pain in my life that I feel it is very good for me, now God has given it to me, and I do so thank Him for it." And again, after a pause, “How thankful I am that my head is untouched." His wife, turning to the Prayer-Book, began to read the exhortation in "the Visitation of the Sick," he listening with deep attention, and at the end of many of the sentences emphatically saying, “Yes.” "There should be no greater comfort to Christian persons to be made like unto Christ." "Yes." than "By suffering patiently troubles, adversities, and sickness." "Yes.' "He entered not into His glory before He was crucified." "Yes." At the words “everlasting life" she stopped, and his son said, "I wish, dear papa, we had you at Fox How." Dr. Arnold did not answer, but the last conscious look which remained fixed in his wife's memory was the look of intense love and tenderness with which he smiled upon them both at that moment. 66 The physician returned with the usual remedies, which he proceeded to apply. The spasms recurred slightly; and Arnold remarked, "If the pain is again as severe as it was before you came, I do not know how I can bear it." He then, with his eyes fixed upon the physician, who rather felt than saw them upon him, so as to make it impossible not to answer the exact truth, repeated one or two of his former questions about the cause of the disease, and ended with asking "Is it likely to return?" and on being told that it was, “Is it generally suddenly fatal ? " Generally." On being asked whether he had any pain, he replied that he had none but from the mustard plaster on his chest, with a remark on the severity of the spasms in comparison with this outward pain; and then a few moments afterwards inquired what medicine was to be given, and on being told, answered, "Ah, very well." The physician, who was dropping the laudanum into a glass, turned round and saw him looking quite calm, but with his eyes shut. In another minute he heard a rattle in the throat and a convulsive struggle, flew to the bed, caught his head upon his shoulder, and called to one of the servants to fetch Mrs. Arnold. She had but just left the room before his last conversation with the physician, in order to acquaint her son with his father's danger, of which he was still unconscious, when she heard herself called from above. She HIS LABOURS THE BEST MEMORIAL. 81 rushed upstairs, told her son to bring the rest of the children, and with her own hands applied the remedies that were brought in the hope of reviving animation, though herself feeling, from the moment that she saw him, that he had already passed away. He was indeed no longer conscious. The sobs and cries of the children, as they entered and saw their father's state, made no impression upon him; the eyes were fixed, the countenance was unmoved, there was a heaving of the chest, deep gasps escaped at prolonged intervals, and just as the usual medical attendant arrived, and as the old school-house servant, in an agony of grief, rushed with the others into the room, in the hope of seeing his master once more, he breathed his last. I cannot dwell here upon the painful impression produced by the sudden death of the great schoolmaster. He was buried on the following Friday in Rugby Chapel, where a memorial has since been erected to him; but the most fitting and enduring memorial is that new spirit in public-school education which he was the first to inspire and foster. In his stanzas entitled "Rugby Chapel," his poet-son, Mr. Matthew Arnold, has poured out a tribute of affectionate praise, which has become part and parcel of our literature. He says: "But thou wouldst not alone Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand! Stones might have wounded thy feet, Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing to us thou wert still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm. |