He speaks of himself in the third
person:

"And he [Father Hecker] was never so occupied as now, although he is
doing nothing and has been in that condition for months. Though he
does hear Mass, he does not, because he cannot, say it--without
showing what a _big fool_ he is. However he has begun again to say
it. If it had not been for human respect he would not have said it
last Sunday; he was too feeble. God is killing him by slow fire, by
inches. He dies terribly hard."

If Father Hecker had had an unimpaired physical system when his
interior trials came, he might have resisted the nervous depression
which they caused, at least well enough to maintain an active part in
his undertakings. Or if his bodily weakness, resulting from his early
austerities, had been accompanied with interior equanimity, he might
have held up. A rickety ship can, with care and skill, get into port
if the engine is sound, and so can a sound ship with a broken-down
engine sail home, however slowly. But with both a rickety ship and a
disabled engine the port should be near at hand or there is danger of
shipwreck. That Father Hecker did not die long before he did, was
due, apart from God's special designs, to the extraordinary skill and
care of Doctor James Begen, who was also an attached friend. Mr.
Anthony Ellis, one of his former penitents, served him in his
sick-room out of pure love from 1879 until his death, which preceded
Father Hecker's by about a year. He had a kind-hearted successor in
Mr. Patrick McCann.

Father Hecker's beloved brother George died on February 14, 1888. He
had been ailing for some time and Father Hecker went to see him
frequently. . . . "George and I," he once said, "were united in a way
no words can describe. Our union was something extremely spiritual
and divine." The following memorandum tells how Father Hecker
received the news:

"George Hecker died about nine o'clock last night, and when I
informed Father Hecker of it this morning he was deeply moved. 'Don't
say a word to me!' he cried, 'not a word. Read something! Read
something quick!' I stepped over to the table and took the Scriptures
and began to read the thirteenth chapter of St. John, read it
through, and another chapter. By that time he calmed down. He only
wept twice, except a few little sobs, and went out riding as usual
this afternoon. He is profoundly moved. 'I knew it,' he said this
morning; 'I saw it, I saw it last night--it seemed to me that I