with which he had been occupied, and impatiently blamed the anxiety of his friends who had dismissed his assistant too hastily.  He then, according to his daily custom, had another of his pupils read to him the newspaper.  He followed the reading with lively attention, making his remarks now of agreement and now of dissent, till at length he fell asleep, and so ended the day’s work.  Later in the afternoon, while racked with pain, it occurred to him that his sister might think of foregoing sleep on his account, which he begged her not to do.  Wednesday he had the newspaper read to him, and made his comments, as usual.  Thursday night brought with it a convulsive hiccough.  Friday, his spirit was clear, peaceful and full of love.  But Friday night extinguished the last hopes of his friends.  The pains he endured were excruciating.  With an indescribably affecting and deeply tender voice, before which no eye remained tearless, he exclaimed, “Would to God I could sleep.”  Saturday he was clamorous for the servant to bring him his clothes, that he might dress and go about his work.  His sister came:  “Think, dear August, what thou hast said to me when I have rebelled against the directions of the physician, ’It comes from God, therefore must we acquiesce in it.’” “That is true,” answered quickly the softened voice, “it all comes from God, and we must thank him for it.”  During the day he asked to be taken into the study.  The sweet sunlight, streaming on his nearly blinded eyes, refreshed and gladdened him.  After this, a bath of wine and strengthening herbs was administered, which seemed to do him good.  Finding himself amongst his books again, he rose upon the cushions which supported him, and, to the astonishment of all, began a lecture upon the New Testament, and announced for the coming term a course of lectures upon the Gospel of John.  At half-past nine, having inquired the hour, he fell asleep.  When he awoke, it was Sunday.  There came back a gush of bodily strength, the last leaping of the light before it flickered in the socket.  Taking up the thread of his history where he had dropped it two days before, he began to dictate for some one to write.  The passage was about the mystics of the 14th and 15th centuries.  The concluding sentence was:  “So it was in general; the further development is to follow.”  Then turning to his sister, he said:  “I am tired; let us make ready to go home;” as though they were somewhere on a long and wearisome journey.  And then rallying his last energies in one parting word of tenderness to her who was bending over him with a breaking heart, he murmured, “Good night,” and died.

Thus he died with his harness on, not aware, probably, that he was so near his end; else he might have uttered some dying testimony, which would have passed into the literature of the church to be the comfort of other saints in their mortal agony.  But, on his own account, no such dying testimony was required.  For thirty-seven years he had stood his ground gallantly in Berlin, witnessing for Christ in the face of a learned skepticism, and he could well afford to pass directly, without an interlude, from the toils and conflicts of earth to the joys and triumphs of the redeemed in heaven.