he castellated mansion erected by Forrest, he had
the devoted care of the Sisters of Charity, and visits to Newport seemed
to revive for a time his waning strength. His mind remained clear, and
he continued to direct the affairs of his diocese, convening a
Provincial Council, the acts of which were transmitted to Rome. "The
Cardinal's fidelity to duty clung to him to the end. He continued to
plead for his flock at God's altar, as long as he had power to stand.
Even when the effort to say Mass would so fatigue him that he could do
nothing else that morning, he continued, at least, on feast days, to
offer the Holy Sacrifice. He said his last Mass on the Feast of the
Ascension, 1884." At the Plenary Council in Baltimore, at the close of
that year, the diocese was represented by his coadjutor.

From the time of his last Mass he was unable to read or write; unable to
move a single step without assistance. In this condition he lingered,
sinking by a slow and gradual decline, but preserving his serenity and
the full possession of his mental faculties. "None of those around him,"
says Archbishop Corrigan, "ever heard the first syllable of complaint.
It was again his service of the Lord, such as our Lord ordained it. To
those who sympathized with him in his helplessness, the sweet answer
would be made: 'It is God's will. Thy will, O Lord, be done on earth as
it is in heaven.' Fulfilling God's will, he passed away, calmly and in
peace, as the whole course of his life had been, and without a struggle;
'the last words he was able to utter, being the Hail Mary.'"

The death of our first American Cardinal, October 10th, 1885, called
forth from the press, and from the clergy of other denominations, a
uniform expression of deep and touching respect. He had won many moral
victories without fighting battles; his victories left no rancor.
Everywhere at Catholic altars Masses were offered for the repose of his
soul, and when the tidings crossed the Atlantic, the solemn services at
Paris and Rome attested the sense of his merit, and of the Church's
loss.

His funeral in New York was most imposing. Around the grand Cathedral,
as around a fretted rock of marble, surged the waves of people, like a
sea. The vast interior was filled, and beneath the groined roof he had
reared, lay, in his pontifical vestments,--the hat, insignia of his
highest dignity, at his feet,--the mild and gentle and patient Cardinal
McCloskey, his life's work well and n