Of the broad blessed light and perfect air, with meadows, rippling tides, and trees and flowers and grass, And the low hum of living breeze--and in the midst God's beautiful eternal right hand, Thee, holiest minister of Heaven--thee, envoy, usherer, guide at last of all, Rich, florid, loosener of the stricture-knot call'd life, Sweet, peaceful, welcome Death. As his book-making thus drew to a finish, he occupied himself with his own tomb. This was being erected through the autumn of 1891 among the young beeches and hickories of a new cemetery, a few miles out of Camden. It was built of grey granite into the bank, and framed after a well-known design of Blake's.[762] At once plain but impressive, it is strikingly different from the poor little cottage in which he died. And the fact illustrates again Whitman's simple acceptance of realities. He knew that his grave must be a place of pilgrimage; and having brought the bones of his father and mother to lie beside his own, he gave all possible dignity, for the sake of the book and the cause, to this his last resting-place. While he was thus spending a considerable sum upon his tomb, the extra expenses entailed by his prolonged illness were being met, unknown to him, by the generosity of his Camden friends. After his death, his executors were surprised to find that there was in the bank a considerable reserve,[763] amounting to several hundred pounds, available for distribution between his sisters and his brother Edward, according to the terms of his will. * * * * * In mid-December, 1891, Whitman's right lung became congested, and when Dr. Bucke arrived on the 22nd the death-rattle had already been heard, and his immediate passing was anticipated.[764] At Christmas, John Burroughs came over, and found such an unconquered look upon the sufferer's face that the thought of death's nearness seemed impossible.[765] From St. Louis came Jessie Whitman, her father, Jefferson, having died a year earlier; and the colonel brother, who seems now to have removed from Camden, spent at least one anxious night in the little house. Mr. Johnston also came over from New York for a last sight of his old friend. But even with those nearest to him, interviews became more and more difficult. He longed for the solitude and silence which their love found it hardest to give. The wintry days at the junction of the years went by in suffering and patience. Walt was affectionately grateful for the intimate services of his nurse and of Horace Traubel; writing of the latter as "unspeakably faithful".[766] Though he was generally calm he was longing for death. He had dreadful hiccoughs, and grew colder and more emaciated. The suffering had become terrible, and the anticipation of its long continuance brought fear for the first time to his strong heart. [Illustration: HORACE TRAUBEL AT FORTY-FIVE]