Mrs. Grant's request, family prayers were held. At 10 P. M. the sufferer looked about him and, seeing his daughter Nellie, asked for paper. He wrote some brief instructions, addressing them to different members of the family. By eleven o'clock his pulse was steadier, and his mind clear. He requested Dr. Douglas to say to his family,that they should all retire now since there was no use of their sitting up longer. By midnight the cottage was quiet, and the dying man was left alone with his watchers. At I A. M. of the 22d, the rally was maintained, and there was every indication that he would witness the sunrise of another day.

And that 21st of July, 1885, had been a day of anxiety for the whole country, for word had been flashed throughout the land that "Grant was dying." Again eager throngs crowded around the bulletin boards, and this time with sadder hearts than ever, for now the news were ominously impressive in form and utterly without the inspiration of a hope.

What is that sad rumor flying?
Grant, the sturdy soldier, dying?
Grant, the grim, yet glorious Mars,
Saviour of the Stripes and Stars-
Grant, the warrior, dying?

Grant, whose cool, intrepid bearing
Stimulated deeds of daring

In the hottest of the field,

And whose cry was "Never yield!”
Grant, unconquered, dying?

Grant, whose manly faults are hidden
'Neath the cloak that waves unbidden.

Royal robe of purple dye

In the loom of memory

Grant, the hero, dying?

Ah! 'tis worth a nation's sighing!
On Truth's wings the rumors flying.
Softly, friends! a hero falls

When the unwelcome angel calls

Grant, at work, is dying.

The gray tint of morning began to creep up the horizon shortly after three o'clock. The General had been resting for an hour, but now came a coughing spell, signal for every attendant to make vigilance closer. The doctor was awakened. He cleansed the patient's throat, and checked the spasm. A little liquid food was taken, and at four o'clock the General requested a pad and pencil. He wrote with great difficulty a brief communication for his family, which was passed to his son Fred. He then composed himself, by placing his elbows on the arms of his chair, and supporting his chin on both his hands. The dawn broke into the splendors of a new day. Doctors Sands and Shrady were telegraphed for, not with a thought that aid could now be rendered, but that the responsibilities of the closing stages of the case might be shared by those who had participated in its beginnings. During all that night of suffering and extreme prostration the patient's mind remained firm and unclouded. On inquiring the time, he was told it was one o'clock. Shortly afterward it struck twelve. He called attention to the fact that the clock was wrong an hour. Later on, observing the anxiety of those about him, he wrote, "I do not want anybody to be distressed on my account."

And now the bright sun of July 22d, was fully up. Its rays entered a home utterly devoid of cheer and hope. The end which all had striven so heroically to postpone was evidently at hand, and its approach must now be counted by sad hours. The hypodermic injections have lost all their power. There is no rally, no reaction. Exhaustion is sheer. The pulse flickers and cannot be counted. Respiration is short and quick. Failure is steady and rapid. Recuperation is impossible, for nourishment can no longer be taken. The hours pass in waiting for the last, dread summons. He would speak, but cannot; would write, but the pallid hands refuse to hold or guide the pencil. He has written his last word.

The absent son, Jesse, arrives. The physicians come. There is a little rally, a last desperate attempt to beat back the grim monster. And then the weakness of death settles upon him. again. At 8 P. M., he is asked if he would not exchange his chair for the bed. He starts as if to comply, but volition is thwarted by refusal of the body to move. He is carried tenderly to the bed, and laid therein. It is General Grant's death Disease has done its worst.

bed. He is free from pain now. He is resigned. Strength of will can do no more. And that resignation has about it the true composure of the Christian, the happy beam that lights the dark valley, the sweet peace that bridges the grave and opens in advance beatific visions of Paradise.

The night wears away amid watching and the administrations that smooth the pathway to the grave. Once only there is answer to the anxious quests after his welfare. “What will you have, General? "Water," is the feeble, almost inaudible reply. It was his last word. The breath shortens and thickens, and gurgles in his throat. The pulse beat is only a tremble. Morning dawns, and the physicians and family are called by the watchers. Sunrise in nature, sunset with a mortal! The doctors come. The family move mournfully toward the death couch and gather in solemn tearful group about the expiring hero.

Around the patient's mouth gathers the purplish tinge, nature's signal of dissolution. The doctor lifts a hand; it is cold. Respiration quickens still more, and becomes noiseless. Death is painless and serene-an ebbing away of life. Now the eyes close. A peaceful expression deepens in the strong lines of the face. There is a fuller, deeper breath, as if relief had come to long and anxious tension. It is the exhalation of a human soul. The doctor steps a little nearer, stoops to listen, turns away with the announcement that "All is over." Then the sad realization forces itself on the reluctant hearts of

the assembled mourners that General Grant is dead. It was eight minutes past eight, on the morning of Thursday, July 23d, 1885, that a family stood bereft of its beloved head, and a nation was called upon to mourn the loss of its most illustrious and endeared citizen.

For

Heroic to the last, he fought his final battle with the same unquailing courage, the same calm, grim fortitude which shed their fadeless lustre on his whole extraordinary career. months the nation had hung over his bedside and sadly watched his resolute, unmurmuring struggle, and the silent foot-fall of the unseen conqueror came as he and all would have had it, not with poignant shock as when a Lincoln or a Garfield fell, but as a messenger bearing a crown of full glory and beckoning ripened life to a land of light and fruition. As his achievements proved him to be a master of men, so his weary illness and heroic death proved that he was master of himself. The great captain, in all his career, dispatched but one flag of truce to the enemy and that was when he sent his great white soul from the mountain top to the angel of death.

The sad news were flashed throughout the land, and by nine o'clock the bells were tolling everywhere. The one theme of a nation and the world was the passing away of him who had fought a good fight, had finished his course, had kept the faith. Humanity had but one heart for the occasion, and that was now bowed and broken in grief. Tongue and pen had but one word, and that was sympathy over the great loss, and praise of the virtues that had made his life noble and illustrious. For the afflicted family it was the beginning of condolence, unlimited by station, creed, color, nationality, or condition, and as warm as the utmost measure of affection and deepest sense of loss could make it. For the press, the pulpit, the forum, it was the occasion of eulogy, strong, full and beautiful, commensurate with a great love, a towering, fame, and irreparable loss;

DEATH-BED SCENE.