CHAPTER XVII.

CLOSING DAYS.

HE last years of my father's life were spent, like all that had preceded them, in busy and exhausting labors. If he had never consciously chosen a watchword, it still shone out from his daily life in the work in which he delighted. The element of rest seemed almost eliminated from his experience, even the Sabbath bringing him the pastoral cares which rested so sacredly upon his heart. His preparation for the pulpit was usually made Saturday night, after he had vainly attempted to rescue time from the engrossments of the week, and the early morning light often found him writing upon the unfinished sermon. The vacations which brought rest to others were full of work for him, as the changes of each year left vacancies to be supplied in the College corps, which involved much thought, discussion, and correspondence, and he could not go far enough from home to escape the daily package of letters which faithfully followed him and ever brought new subjects for reflection. The spring of 1875, which closed so successfully the first decade of the College, found him with health greatly impaired, and grave fears were entertained by many of his friends. He would have been poorly prepared for the duties of another year without the summer of refreshment which was secured to him by the action of the Board of Trustees and by the generous gift of some of its

members. It was a gift of new life. He sought restor ation once more in European travel, and was again greatly benefited.

But three years sufficed 'to exhaust the stores of strength which he laid up in those life-giving months. Although they were free from the special perplexities which he had known in the earlier and experimental years of the College, they brought a burden of daily care which few could measure, as he freely gave of brain and heart to the interests which were so precious to him. Yet never was his life more joyfully given to his work. The hours of depression were rare, and, while his bodily strength failed, his spirit was perpetually renewed.

I am permitted to cite here the impressions of one who had been associated with him in the daily duties of his office, written soon after his death to a longabsent friend:

The two points that have impressed me most in my constant intercourse with him have been his unfailing cheerfulness and his all-embracing charity-not merely kindly benevolence of feeling, but a great Christ-like love for every human being, a determination to believe the best of everybody, in spite of appearances, and an effort to search for honorable and praiseworthy motives as an explanation of conduct. Both these points have been especially prominent during the last year. He was so light-hearted, there was such a constant ebullition of happy, joyous feelings, that I find it impossible now to believe that his physical strength was, even then, yielding to the long and bravely borne burden of over-work and care. The success which crowned his great and arduous labors was so great and manifest that he could not help having intense satisfaction and happiness in it. One after another, obstacles were overcome. Each year he saw his ideal more fully met. He had in large measure the greatest happiness that can come to a human being, the evidence that through his instrumentality lives were

constantly growing nobler and purer. He was so permeated with the conviction that the work in which he was engaged was God's work, and that he was doing it consciously for Him, that when he heard His voice calling him to another sphere of labor, he turned easily, without any shock or hesitation, to obey the call. I cannot think of his life during his last years without feeling that he had, and that he enjoyed, the most rich and ample and satisfying return of all his labors.

This was the fruition which came to him amid his very latest duties. Never was it so sweet, or so evident to those about him, as in the last days of his public ministration. A year which had not been free from great anxieties had closed propitiously; the last burden was rolled from his heart, and he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the present and of the bright future which he saw before the College. "Never have I been so thoroughly satisfied with a Commencement," he said. He entered with joyous zest into all the duties, social and official, of the busy week. All the strength and sunshine of his nature seemed gathered up in that one. last effort. Many who were present at that time remember the brightness which in looking back to it now seems a radiance of look and manner. He was everywhere present, exchanging greetings and congratulations with all. Every face that he met and every hand that was stretched out to him seemed to touch some special chord of memory or loving interest in his heart. He was particularly happy in the return of many of the earlier students and alumnæ, and each received a welcome and a blessing. Every member of the large class which graduated seemed to hold an individual place in his acquaintance and affection, as each one came to say farewell and lingered to hear his parting words.

The three days which followed Commencement were joyful days to those who cherish the last unshadowed memories of husband and father. All the brightness of his life seemed to culminate and shine forth in those cloudless hours. A wealth of love and delight and blessed companionship was poured out upon the children and grandchildren and young friends who surrounded him, as he gave himself up to their every wish in walks or drives or the readings which they begged for.

On the fourth day after Commencement, which was the Sabbath, he suffered from a severe headache, which seemed only the natural reaction of the week's excitement. From that time no hour was free from suffering. By the advice of friends he went on Monday to Saratoga, hoping for benefit from the waters, but upon arriving there was greatly prostrated; threatened, the physicians said, with an attack of malarial fever. His beloved friend, the College Superintendent, Mr. William Forby-alas! so soon to follow him to the better Country-had accompanied him on the journey and remained with him at Saratoga, giving him the most devoted sympathy and attention till the worst symptoms were relieved. Alternations of improvement and relapse awoke the apprehensions of his friends. His wife had joined him, and was daily hoping that he would gain strength for the journey home. But each day disappointed the hope, until his friend Mr. Matthew Vassar, who had become seriously alarmed, went himself to Saratoga to offer the affectionate and timely aid without which the journey could hardly have been accomplished. He engaged a special car, and every step of the painful way was made easy by his thoughtful care and his appeals to brakemen and conductors,

who avoided as far as possible the jarring and jolting of the train. It was a long and trying ride from the depot in Poughkeepsie to the College, and the rapidly wasting strength of the invalid was well-nigh exhausted. Arrived at last, Mr. Vassar lifted him from the carriage and bore him in his own arms up the long stairway to the rooms from which he would go out no more. His deep sigh of relief and the whispered "God bless you" were the only sign of the longings which were satisfied in the rest of home. Here loving hands ministered to him, and though many hearts were anxious, it was only with the fear of a long-continued illness. Among those who were summoned was his life-long friend and beloved brother, Dr. Bliss, who spent many hours by his bedside. A letter from him will tell the story of those days of silent watching and close the last chapter of this Life:

MY DEAR NIECE: In complying with your request that I should give some account of your father's last hours, allow me to say a word first about the stages by which I had seen him approach the end. I think it was in November of the preceding fall that, yielding to the urgent advice of physicians, he had consented to rest for three weeks only (they had recommended some months), a part of which time he and your mother spent with us. We were grieved, not to say shocked, at the manifest enfeeblement of his health. Still, although your aunt seemed already to foresee that her brother would not stay long on the earth, I did not entertain such a thought. I was indeed persuaded that the rest which he was taking was quite insufficient, but he almost promised that he would the next summer throw off altogether his burden for a year, or for six months at least. As we had seen him once or twice rally from similar depression of health upon a little relaxation, I easily believed that a long vacation after that year's labor-a vacation to be spent abroad