He made continual efforts to conceal that he was in pain.  When they asked why he was so often singing to himself, he replied, “If I didn’t sing, I should groan.”  Even as late as the day before he died, he indulged in some little “Cheeryble” pleasantries, evidently intended to enliven those who were nearly exhausted by their long attendance on him.  At this period, his son-in-law, James S. Gibbons, wrote to me thus:  “Considering his long bodily weakness, now ten weeks, he is in an extraordinary state of mental strength and clearness.  Reminiscences are continually falling from his lips, like leaves in autumn from an old forest tree; not indeed green, but rich in the colors that are of the tree, and characteristic.  Thou hast known him in the extraordinary vigor and freshness of his old age; cheating time even out of turning his hair gray.  But thou shouldst see him now; when, to use his own words, he feels that ‘the messenger has come.’  All his thoughts have tended to, and reached this point.  The only question with him now is of a few more days.  Though prostrate in body, his mind is like a sturdy old oak, that don’t care which way the wind blows.  As I sat by his bedside, last evening, I thought I never had seen so beautiful a close to a good man’s life.”

He had no need to make a will; for he died, as he had lived, without property.  But he disposed of his little keepsakes with as much cheerfulness as if he had been making New-Year’s presents.  He seemed to remember everybody in the distribution.  His Quaker library was left in the care of his children, with directions that it should be kept where members of the Society of Friends or others interested could have ready access to it.  To his daughter Sarah he entrusted the paper written by her mother, at fourteen years of age; still fastened by the pin she had placed in it, which her dear hand had invested with more value than a diamond, in his eyes.  He earnestly recommended his wife to the affectionate care of his children; reminding them that she had been a kind and faithful companion to him during many years.  He also gave general directions concerning his funeral.  “Don’t take the trouble to make a shroud,” said he.  “One of my night-shirts will do as well.  I should prefer to be buried in a white pine coffin; but that might be painful to my family; and I should not like to afflict them in any way.  It may, therefore, be of dark wood; but be sure to have it entirely plain, without varnish or inscription.  Have it made by some poor neighbor, and pay him the usual price of a handsome one; for I merely wish to leave a testimony against vain show on such occasions.”  He appeared to be rather indifferent where he was buried; but when he was informed that his son and daughter had purchased a lot at Greenwood Cemetery, it seemed pleasant to him to think of having them and their families gathered round him, and he consented to be laid there.