must have written on the Saturday before the end:

"When time seems short and death is near,
And I am pressed by doubt and fear,
And sins, an overflowing tide,

Assail my peace on every side,
This thought my refuge still shall be,
I know the Saviour died for me.

"His name is Jesus, and he died,
For guilty sinners crucified;
Content to die that he might win
Their ransom from the death of sin:
No sinner worse than I can be,
Therefore I know he died for me.

"If grace were bought, I could not buy;
If grace were coined, no wealth have I;
By grace alone I draw my breath,
Held up from everlasting death;
Yet, since I know his grace is free,

I know the Saviour died for me."

Had he foreseen what a day would bring forth, he could not have penned a farewell message more appropriate than this. His body was embalmed and brought to New York. He had left directions concerning his funeral, "Sing my own hymn, 'It is not death to die,' to a cheerful tune." His whole life had been one of joyful trust in the Lord, and he wanted no undue sadness at the end. His wishes were carried out. The hymn to which he referred was a translation

which in an hour of inspiration he had made of a poem by the distinguished Swiss preacher, Cæsar Malan:

"It is not death to die,

To leave this weary road,

And midst the brotherhood on high

To be at home with God.

"It is not death to close

The eye long dimmed by tears,

And wake, in glorious repose

To spend eternal years.

"It is not death to bear

The wrench that sets us free

From dungeon chain, to breathe the air
Of boundless liberty.

"It is not death to fling

Aside this sinful dust,

And rise, on strong exulting wing,

To live among the just.

"Jesus, thou Prince of Life,

Thy chosen cannot die:

Like thee, they conquer in the strife,
To reign with thee on high."

CHAPTER XIV

WHITTIER

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

1807-1892

To multitudes of people Whittier is the bestloved in the long roll of American Men of Letters. His quaint Quakerisms, his broad, tolerant spirit, his prevailing optimism, his deep human sympathy, together with the wonderful charm of his verse, have endeared him to the popular heart in a very peculiar way.

In all his habits of mind he was an American through and through. He was devoted to his New England hills, and was glad to spend his life in or near the house where he was born, and which his great-grandsire had erected in 1688. And yet his boyhood brought with it many hardships. While Emerson, Longfellow, Holmes, and Lowell were enjoying all the advantages of a liberal education, Whittier was wearing himself out with the heavy drudgery of farm-work. Swinging the flail so overtaxed his strength, and the absence of flannels and an overcoat in even the bitterest winter weather so exposed him, that the seeds of physical weakness were sown from which he never recovered.