The height of some o'erlooking hill,
His heart revives if 'cross the plains
He eyes his home, though distant still;

Thus, when the Christian pilgrim views,
By faith, his mansion in the skies,
The sight his fainting strength renews,
And wings his speed to reach the prize.

'Tis there, he says, I am to dwell
With Jesus in the realms of day;
There I shall bid my cares farewell
And He will wipe my tears away.

He knew about all the cheerful tunes that were ever printed in old "New
Brunswick Collection," and the "Shunway," and the sweetest melodies that
Thomas Hastings ever composed. He took the pitch of sacred song on
Sabbath morning, and kept it through all the week.

My father was the only person whom I ever knew without any element of
fear. I do not believe he understood the sensation.

Seated in a waggon one day during a runaway that every moment threatened
our demolition, he was perfectly calm. He turned around to me, a boy of
seven years, and said, "DeWitt, what are you crying about? I guess we
can ride as fast as they can run."

There was one scene I remember, that showed his poise and courage as
nothing else could. He was Sheriff of Somerset County, N.J., and we
lived in the court house, attached to which was the County Jail. During