I sometimes think it were best to let the dead rest in their graves, and not to 'vex their ghost' with ill judged speech. They know so much we do not know. Words too, thus written, often jar upon the memory of living friends. Beside the grave, if we would hold communion with the dead, silence is best; and if with the mourner there we would sympathise, well, just the tender pressure of the hand and nothing said! An 'in memoriam' is not wanted for his friends. As one said to me, when she received a token of Father Eager after he was dead, 'I need no token, let another have it, I shall not forget.' For those who knew him not there can be no 'in memoriam,' but only a cold record which leaves the pulse unstirred. As Wordsworth writes
Yet epitaphs are in fashion, and I will briefly write lest there be those who think one who was loved, neglected; as we might think, though foolishly perhaps, if we passed by a grave without a head stone or inscription over it.
Father Eager was born at Aughton in Lancashire A.D. 1852. His mother I believe was in part Lancashire, but his father Dr. Eager was Irish, and love for Ireland and the Irish was a worthy heir-loom which descended to his son. So far as I know there was only one other child: The Rev. James Eager of Burscough near Southport.
His parents died when he was young but he found a kind home, and faithful friends in the family of Mr. Chamberlain of Birkdale. I first met Father Eager at Ampleforth College where he and his brother were educated. He was some three years my senior; no great difference in after life but in boyhood sufficient to prevent intimacy. I remember him well, however, and we were friendly enough. He was a fine, strong active, fellow and that good nature and forgiving disposition which always made him a favourite in after life, made him a popular boy. He had a painful stammer, yet strange to say he was an excellent elocutionist and powerful actor. This dramatic power remained with him always, as those know well who heard him preach. He had not trained it to be used with full effect, but both voice and gesture were with him innate gifts. I do not think they were equalled even in our best known preachers. He told a story well, and, I may add, often, a trait which drew on him the banter of his friends. His power of speech was a gift he used well for the good of Religion, whether in giving Retreats or in the pulpit, or on the platform.
He joined the Novitiate A.D. 1871 and returned to Ampleforth four years later where he was solemnly professed. Shortly afterwards he went to Fort Augustus, in the days when it was struggling into existence, and still remained united to the English Congregation. There he was ordained priest, and for a time held the office of Prefect of the College. Next he found his place as resident canon at St. Michael's Cathedral Priory, near Hereford. Thence he passed on to the mission, first to Warrington and afterwards to St. Peter's, Seel Street, Liverpool, where for ten years he worked among the people and by all classes made himself genuinely loved. I was there with him for four years, and happy enough years they were - But I need not dwell on that time. The simplicity of his life could be seen by all. He was quite unworldly; he spent very little on himself, and his friends had difficulty in persuading him to get a new coat, even when his old one emphatically provoked them to try. His tastes were simple, and he was easily amused. Few men were more entirely priestly in their thoughts and words. He was always anxiously on the alert to bring some soul to the Catholic faith, and boldly, and with God's grace successfully, he did bring many into its light who will, I know, be everlastingly grateful to him. He spoke directly and forcibly of Religion whenever an opportunity offered. Indeed his usefulness was very great. I have sometimes thought his brethren failed to fully appreciate him. Not so those whom he so well helped. Many a sinner, many a troubled and many an aspiring soul has found consolation and strength in his Confessional; and there are holy souls who, under his guidance have left the common path to tread the loftier one - the dura et aspera per quae itur ad Deum - in the Religious life. The tears of a grief-stricken parish, shocked by the news of his death, in the mid-day of life's course, bear witness at once to his true helpfulness and the love of their own warm and grateful hearts. But these things are known better by those who experienced them than by me who looked on. I will hasten on that I may linger a little on what I saw of the closing details of his life.
In 1897, I think about Easter time, after the wearying labours of Lent, the first severe attack of pain and loss of blood came as a warning of the hidden mischief which was to undermine his life. This passed, and the malignity of the evil was not recognised. A second attack occurred, not so severe, but the signs of recurrence were more alarming. It was thought necessary for Father Eager to leave Liverpool. From Liverpool he went to Mayfield in Sussex to be chaplain there to the Nuns. No doubt he was weighed down by the burden of his grievous disease long before he left, without recognising the cause of his depression, and he was happy to go from the worry and responsibility of a Liverpool Mission. At Mayfield he thought he would find peace and a quiet time to look after his own soul. Yet, I doubt if the quiet life of the country suited, either body or mind, better than the stir and occupation of the town. Certainly there was no improvement. Attacks of hemorrhage and acute pain became more frequent. The last five or six months were spent in bed, or in a brief convalescence. He was, more than once, urged to see a specialist, but he seemed satisfied with his present medical advice. Only under the aggravated attacks of his disease was he at last persuaded to do so. He went to London and consulted an eminent specialist. The doctor quickly came to his conclusions with regard to the evil at work, and did not conceal the seriousness of the case.
Before, however, giving an accurate diagnosis - which afterwards indeed he gave with astonishing correctness and final decision, he required the patient to undergo a more particular examination for which it would be necessary to administer ether or chloroform. In preparation for this he was received into a private hospital near Baker Street, where he was kindly cared for to the end.
Father Eager wrote at once to the Prior of Ampleforth and begged that I might be allowed to go to London and see him through any operation if, as the doctor considered likely, there should be one. On Easter Tuesday a telegram came asking me to come at once, I started and arrived in London about mid-night. Next morning I called at the Hospital, but I could not see my old friend. He was under the effects of anaesthetics; not that there had been any operation, it was merely the previous examination. I called again in the evening. He was conscious, but too unwell to talk much, or for me to stay long. He was anxious but had not heard the result of the examination. The next afternoon I came again. He had learnt the Doctor's verdict. It was plainly spoken. There must be an operation; a very severe one, and there was a doubt whether even that could be successfully performed. Without the attempt there was no hope. He might live one month, perhaps three, not more. It takes a courageous heart to face such a sentence undismayed, and we can well forgive the anxious fears, - the awakened dread, which beset a sufferer as he lies upon his bed and hears it. Indeed it was a distressing hour. The poor fellow was much moved; not with love for life, though he was in its prime; nor for regret at leaving it. Only for this: 'It is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God.'! How intensely he realized those words, and the nearness of their fulfilment. 'Perhaps in a week!' he said. It was a marked feature of Father Eager's life - this vivid realization of his faith. He had dwelt much on death, and St. Liguori's meditations on 'Preparation for Death' had been a favourite book of his. It lay now on his bed. I fain would have exchanged it for another! I think his own spiritual life had been too much coloured by the more sombre side of revealed truth. He pondered now, as so often before, on the responsibilities of the priest's life, and, as he put it, on his ill fulfilment of them. Indeed this humility and mistrust of himself was touching. I tried to say a word to turn his thoughts to the tender love of our Divine Saviour. 'Ah! I fear,' he said, 'I am very hardhearted.' It was a severe and useful lesson to stand there with him so near the steps of the great White Throne, and hear him talk. It made one's heart throb with a fear for one's own so careless a life, and sink low with humiliation, that with all the mean unworthiness of one's own soul, - unseen perhaps by the world - and proud condemnation of others, one yet should go so regardlessly along his way ! But the details of such hours are not for public gaze.
Next day his spirits were better. From day to day his brother, who was a constant and affectionate attendant to the end, and a few friends called in, and each day I spent some time with him, until we made him chat away, as he used to do, and tell us of this and that in the old style of his story-telling. Yet all the time his mind was on the question ; 'Shall I have the operation? Is it not better to have three months quietly to prepare for death, to set my house in order?' He asked our advice, and always eagerly what the doctor thought. But the doctor had told him his fears and hopes, and advised the operation. We, too, encouraged him. And now I can hardly regret it. It would have been, I think very difficult for him to have faced unperturbed the slow approaching step of the Phantom Death, which cannot even to the good, divest itself of shroud and coffin and the narrow grave. Besides his physical sufferings would have been very great in the further progress of the disease. God's Providence knows best when and how to call us.
Saturday, April 28th, was the day fixed for the operation. Thursday and Friday were days of seriousness and prayer. Doubtless, too, through the lonely hours, there was a sinking of the heart; it was but natural. On Friday evening I gave him the last Sacraments, for apart from the operation, his disease was dangerous to life. It is always a privilege to give those beautiful and healing rites, yet there cannot but be a tender sadness when you give them to a friend. I think Father Eager was much comforted, and I left him, as it seemed to me, much more at peace. Next morning, when I called, he was already under chloroform. He was thus for two hours while I waited in a room below. When the Doctor came down I learnt, alas! that all had been in vain. The diseased part adhered to the main artery, and it was found impossible to touch it. There was a huge cancerous tumour which could only end in swift death. How were we to break the sad news to our friend when he awoke again to consciousness. We were spared the trial of it. I went into his room later in the day. He was conscious, but very still and pale. Only a few whispered words passed between us. The nurse would not allow more. It was easy to put off question; indeed I think he shrank from asking. That night I went to Cambridge. It gave him pain and I was sorry, but I could not help it. His brother remained. Very late on Sunday I called to enquire how he was. I did not see him. On Monday morning I was with him again. He was very weak, indeed sinking fast. He was quite quiet and did not seem anxious. I gave him some messages from friends. They had not forgotten him and during his illness he had spoken of them with great kindness. He could not say much now. That night I slept close by, that if death should be a visitant I might be there. There was but little change however. Only, all those signs we priests know so well became more plain. The cold and clammy hands; the sunken features; the strange colour, and that sure presence of collapse which in the whole is seen. He did not suffer, he said, not any acute pain, only the inconvenience of his bandages. I brought him letters and put them by his pillow, for he would not have them opened. His rosary was round his wrist, and his crucifix by his side. I think he had given up the world! A message came from Father Corlett from Seel Street, Liverpool - he had been for some years on the Mission there with Father Eager - asking could he see him if he came. Yes! Father Eager would be glad to see him. I wired the reply. Returning later to the sick-room - I found the patient somewhat changed. There was no sign of returning life, but he had grown restless and would talk freely. I think, perhaps, drugs had affected him. But his talk was very gentle: 'I am dying,' he said, 'the doctor won't believe it but I am dying.' Indeed until that morning the doctor had clung to the hope that he might rally. 'And it will be the 2nd of May, Mary's month!' he added. He, who feared death so much in life, now seemed to have lost all fear. He had indeed prepared earnestly. I remember with what insistance, days before, he had told me; 'Remember when I kiss the crucifix, at the end, I mean it for as perfect an act of sorrow as I can make, for all my sins.' And now peace came to him in the hour he needed it. He spoke of his burial. I said; 'Would you wish to be buried at Mayfield or at Ampleforth' He answered, with a smile upon his face, - half questioningly, - 'Mayfield.' It had been the scene of his last labours, and the peaceful, hallowed life of it was fresh in his memory.
However there were difficulties in the way, as I afterwards found: and I am glad, for now he rests among us here in our little Cemetery on the hill-side. The wreath is withered which a dear friend sent to lay upon his grave, but the sod is green upon it, and, passing by, one pauses there to say the 'de profundis' for his soul's repose.
But to return to the sick-bed. I sat by him and talked a little, or remained silent, or we said some prayers together. About six-o-clock Father Corlett arrived from Liverpool with the sorrowful greetings of Seel Street district. Father Eager answered very touchingly; I know the tears sprang to our eyes as we listened. 'Thank them' he said, 'and tell them I beg their pardon for all my carelessness, and all the scandal I have given by the unworthiness of my life during the years I have been in their midst.' At eight o'clock Father Corlett left for Liverpool again. At 10.30 p.m. Father Eager's brother and I said good night and left the room. It was not only good night, but a last good bye, till in God's mercy we may hope to meet again in the land that lies beyond the grave. Neither of us saw him again alive. As it drew towards mid-night he grew restless and talked quickly, rambling, and not knowing what he said. Then he fell asleep. Before 2 a.m. he awoke, but was not conscious the nurse thought. The fire of life was burnt out. In a few minutes he breathed his last. The matron had promised to send for me at once if death were actually at hand.
She sent; but he was dead when I entered the room and the solemn words of the Ritual; 'Go forth O Christian soul fell upon deaf ears. I finished the prayers for the dead, and passed into the silent street again. It struck a quarter past two as I slowly walked to my lodgings, thinking of the spirit which so suddenly had crossed the narrow confines and passed from the shadowy mysteries of earth into the boundless light.
William Alexius EAGER 2 May 1900 1852 28 Sep born at Aughton, Lancashire 1871 28 Sep Clothed 1875 8 Dec Solemn Vows 1879 8 Mar Priest 1876-83 Prefect of Students, Fort Augustus 1883 Ampleforth 1884 Belmont Canon of Newport and Menevia 1887 Warrington 1887 St Peter's Liverpool 1898 Mayfield 1900 2 May died in London