him to the rank of General of the Army, and placed him on the retired list, at a salary of $13,500. But even this unusual mark of favor, though more to his liking than any civic demonstration however disinterested and kind, did not serve to make him stronger against the disease which had laid its deadly grip on his threat.

Day by day he fought his losing battle with the dread monster, now better, then worse, now hopeful, then despondent. Day by day the ominous bulletins went out to the world telling of the gains of one hour which were to be more than lost the next. He was, and had been, at work on his reminiscences of the war, one volume of which was complete. He had the second volume well in hand, and was most anxious to complete it. Amid failing strength he wrote or dictated for this, his last work. The doctors forbade it not till compelled to, for it was, in a certain sense, relaxation. It drew him away from thoughts of self, and especially from that anxious, consuming thought that his financial misfortune would prove a blot on an hitherto unstained and brilliant. career.

Could he have seen the heart of the people and heard the warm expressions of sympathy which the daily announcements of his condition drew from the great masses, he would have had no occasion to fear the everlasting preservation of a fame as untarnished, a character as unsullied, a name as dear, as ever hero won, or patriot left to posterity.

By April 1st, 1885, a crisis in his malady was reached. A choking spell aroused his family. The doctors were summoned in haste. They gave temporary relief, but feared that the death agony was on. The minister came. Prayers were held. "He fully realizes," said the minister, Rev. Dr. Newman, "the fact that each hour is but a prolongation of his sufferings, but the strength of his intellect and the calmness and serenity of his mind are wonderful." The inexorable enemy seemed to be knocking at his door.

April 2d, 1885, was a day of anxiety and gloom throughout the United States, and even the civilized world. The General's death was fully expected. The paroxysms in the throat had followed one another so quickly that strength was gone and it was justly thought that the "God bless you, wife and children!" which promptly followed the "Amen" of the prayer of the night before were his last words on earth.

But during the day he rallied somewhat, and more assuring bulletins came toward evening. The patient made an effort to rise from his chair and to walk. The physician remonstrated saying:

"You must fight for us now, General, not against us." "Well, I am doing the best I can," replied the patient, feebly.

Yes, and you must do as well as you once did," added the doctor.

What do you mean?" asked the General.

"When you had the army back of you," was the reply.

"But I haven't the army back of me now," came the measured response, as he closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of his chair.

All day long a dense crowd of people, numbering thousands of young and old, rich and poor, gathered about the residence to catch words of hope. Old friends, officers of Army and State, dignitaries of every nation, called to pay respect and tender sympathy, and learn joyfully of the favorable change in his condition which became more manifest as the evening approached.

"The General is picking up wonderfully," was the news given out at 5 P. M. by Ex-Senator Chaffee.

"He is a man of wonderful vitality. Despite his low condition, he is now able to walk across the room," was the glad announcement made by Mr. Field at 9.15 P. M., and the surging masses, breathing sighs of relief, melted away and dis

appeared in the night. A day had been gained for the sufferer. The beloved and admired of the nation had not yet fallen.

Meanwhile, the religious bodies throughout the land, wherever they were in convention, sent forth their resolutions of prayer for the great man's recovery, of regret at his intense suffering, yet of resignation to the ordering of Him who doeth all things well. Leaders and members of every faith felt that this struggle was as much an exemplification of true Christian fortitude as of old Roman heroism. Legislatures, wherever in session, passed their resolutions of regret and respect and sent their prayers for recovery. North and South, East and West, without regard to politics or opinions, the expressions of sympathy and sorrow, and the petitions of hope, came spontaneously up out of the hearts of those who hung in suspense over the eagerly sought and swiftly passing news. It was clear that Grant belonged to the nation, the people, as no other man ever did.

On April 3d, Good Friday, he rallied sufficiently to answer a special request for his autograph, and when the doctor left him at 10 P. M., it was with the assurance that he would survive until another day and the remark "He is the most marvelous man I ever met." The eve of Good Friday just twenty years before had brought deep sorrow to the nation in the assassination of President Lincoln. In this year of our Lord 1885, it was not a day of tears but, by providential decree, one of thanks for the temporary delivery of our greatest and best from the grasp of death.

Yet what might the hours bring? Would the chimes of Easter Sunday peal gladfully or muffled? In telling of Him that had arisen, would they toll too a requiem for one just passed away? Happily, no. The silent, uncomplaining sufferer was still fighting his unequal battle-not for himself, but for his doctors, his family, all who loved him. The sun of Easter Sunday was bright. The family, the friends, tried to