Nothing was left undone that the tenderest love and wisest solicitude could do for his comfort. His last illness was brief. He died at Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, on September 7, 1892. II WHITTIER’S CHARACTER Whittier’s shyness was proverbial. Those who knew him also knew that beneath that shyness was a masterful spirit. Evasion and inconclusiveness on the part of those with whom he dealt would not avail. Whittier wanted to know where public men stood and for what they stood. A politician himself, he understood the art of dealing with politicians. To a certain candidate he said: ‘Thee cannot expect the votes of our people unless thee speak more plainly.’ Being in great need of the votes of ‘our people,’ the candidate was compelled to speak at once and to use the words Whittier put into his mouth. Another possessed of like skill in controlling men might have grown despotic. Not so Whittier. Tactful and conciliatory, no grain of selfishness was to be found in his composition. He worked for the cause alone. His physical courage, of which there are abundant illustrations, was fully equal to his moral courage. The nerve required to face a disciplined enemy, as in war, is always admirable; one would not wish to underestimate it. But it is a type of courage not difficult to comprehend. A glamour hangs about the battlefield. Men are carried on by the esprit de corps. They do wonders and marvel at their own courage afterwards. Facing a mob is another matter. A mob is an assassin; the last thing it wants is fair play. Whittier had no experiences like those to which Bailey and Garrison were subjected, but he had enough to try his mettle. He was one of the most modest of men, holding his achievements, literary and otherwise, at far lower estimate than did the public. To an anxious inquirer Whittier said that he did not think ‘Maud Muller’ worth serious analysis. He asked for criticism on his verses, and was not slow to act upon it when given. His open-mindedness is shown in the way he accepted Lowell’s suggestion about the refrain of ‘Skipper Ireson’s Ride.’ He defended himself when the criticism touched his motives or impugned his love of truth. Charged with having boasted that his story of ‘Barbara Frietchie’ would live until it got beyond reach of correction, Whittier replied: ‘Those who know me will bear witness that I am not in the habit of boasting of anything whatever, least of all of congratulating myself upon a doubtful statement outliving the possibility of correction.... I have no pride of authorship to interfere with my allegiance to truth.’ He was a stanch friend, and a helpful neighbor. His filial piety was deep--no trait of his character was more pronounced. He was the most devoted of sons, the best of brothers.