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dom. Mob law stalked unabashed through the land. The friends of the poor, crushed slave, were few. There were private griefs, too, in his heart. And at last, disease laid its disheartening hand upon him. But he was calm, gentle, and patient through it all. He declared to the friends who gathered about his couch that his illness would terminate in death. Seeing one of his family weep, he said that he was happy, and wished his friends to be happy also. At last, his hand, which had been so strong for the right, grew too feeble to hold the pen, but even after that he dictated article after article for the press. He possessed, almost to the day of his death, a strong desire to hear constantly of the progress of the great cause to which he had sacrificed his life. He asked eagerly for the welfare of his old associates, who were almost hopelessly opposing themselves to the war feeling which at that time overspread the country.
His greatest comfort during his illnesss was music, of which he once said :
“Oh! this music is one of God's dearest gifts. I do wish men would make more of it. How humanizing it is—and how purifying-elevating and ennobling to the spirit ! And how it has been prostituted and perverted! That accursed drum and fife—how they have maddened mankind! And the deep bass boom of the cannon, chiming in, in the chorus of the battlethat trumpet, and wild, charging bugle—how they set the military devil into a man, and make him into a soldier! Think of the human family, falling upon one another, at the inspiration of music! How must God feel at it! To see those harp strings he meant should be wakened to love bordering on divine, strung and swept to mortal hate and butchery."
During the few days which preceded his death, Mr. Rogers suffered the most excruciating pains. “Oh, dear,” said he, “this is the closing up of my terrible labors !". Terrible, indeed, were they, for his life, for the past few years, had been one continual conflict with the bigoted, the heartless, and the thoroughly depraved. A friend who leaned over the hot brow of the dying man, whispered into his ear that it must be a consoling thought that he had not labored in vain. “O yes,” he answered, “it sustains me unspeakably—the reflection that I have done right.” Though his agony was great, yet the light of reason did not flicker until death led him away.
The sixteenth day of October, 1846, was his last. His family friends were gathered around him, when he asked one of his daughters to sing to him Lover's beautiful “ Angel's Whisper.” The sweet tones of the familiar voice filled the room, and he seemed to be in a rapture of bliss. When the last notes had died away, some one approached him, gently, and asked if Jesse Hutchinson, who was in the next room, should come in. But no answer came from his dying lips. The little band knew that the dread hour had come—no, not dread, but happy, happy hour, which should conduct his weary heart to rest.
In a few minutes, the look of sorrow, which, for a long time, had dwelt constantly upon his countenance, fled away, and a beautiful, seraphic smile rested calmly in its place. He was dead.
It was Friday when he died, and on the following Sabbath, a few friends gathered in his dwelling, forever bereft of his kindly presence, to consign his mortal remains to the grave. The spot of his burial was just that which he would have chosen—a quiet corner of the village grave-yard, beneath the branches of a cluster of oaks. The snow fell drearily into his open grave-very drearily to the bereaved ones who stood sobbing around it. But he was wrapt in the sunshine of his heavenly Father's love!
Thus lived and died a man whose name will never be forgotten, at least till American slavery has passed into oblivion. He was one of the earliest of the antislavery agitators of this country, and one of the purest. But it may be doubted if he was fitted to be a successful agitator at the time when he lived. He had a splendid intellect and a great heart, but the latter was too delicately made to enable him to walk calmly on amid the venomous attacks of enemies, and the not always gentle treatment of professed friends. And yet, he agitated right well, and his sayings will never die. To-day, they live in the deeds of those who, years ago, were roused from inaction by themand to-day they are read by those who never read them before, and they will continue to bear fruit until the freed negro—his brethren likewise all free --shall weep tears of gratitude over his quiet New Hampshire grave.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The poet Whittier was born in the year 1808, in Haverhill, Massachusetts. His home was upon the banks of the wild and beautiful Merrimack river. His ancestors for a number of generations had lived upon the same spot, and it is dear to him, not alone for its beauty of scenery, or from the fact that it was his birth-place, but because every nook and corner in it, or around it, is connected with him, through his ancestors. They were Quakers of the old George Fox stamp; men of iron endurance, christian integrity, and sublime simplicity, and consequently suffered severely at the hands of the Puritans. The father of the poet was a plain farmer, and Whittier either worked upon his father's farm, or attended a district school until he was eighteen years old. He then devoted a year to study in a Latin school, and this, we believe, comprises what is popularly called his education. He was a home-student, however, and probably at twenty possessed a better disciplined mind than one-half of the graduates of our colleges, and his store of valuable knowledge was by no means small.