have shrunken in all his dimensions, and faltered along with an uncertain, feeble step, as if every movement were an effort.  I joined him, and we walked together half an hour, during which time I learned so much of his state of mind and body as could be got at without worrying him with suggestive questions,—­my object being to form an opinion of his condition, as I had been requested to do, and to give him some hints that might be useful to him on his journey.

“His aspect, medically considered, was very unfavorable.  There were persistent local symptoms, referred especially to the stomach,—­’boring pain,’ distension, difficult digestion, with great wasting of flesh and strength.  He was very gentle, very willing to answer questions, very docile to such counsel as I offered him, but evidently had no hope of recovering his health.  He spoke as if his work were done, and he should write no more.

“With all his obvious depression, there was no failing noticeable in his conversational powers.  There was the same backwardness and hesitancy which in his best days it was hard for him to overcome, so that talking with him was almost like love-making, and his shy, beautiful soul had to be wooed from its bashful prudency like an unschooled maiden.  The calm despondency with which he spoke about himself confirmed the unfavorable opinion suggested by his look and history.”

I saw Hawthorne alive, for the last time, the day he started on this his last mortal journey.  His speech and his gait indicated severe illness, and I had great misgivings about the jaunt he was proposing to take so early in the season.  His tones were more subdued than ever, and he scarcely spoke above a whisper.  He was very affectionate in parting, and I followed him to the door, looking after him as he went up School Street.  I noticed that he faltered from weakness, and I should have taken my hat and joined him to offer my arm, but I knew he did not wish to seem ill, and I feared he might be troubled at my anxiety.  Fearing to disturb him, I followed him with my eyes only, and watched him till he turned the corner and passed out of sight.

On the morning of the 19th of May, 1864, a telegram, signed by Franklin Pierce, stunned us all.  It announced the death of Hawthorne.  In the afternoon of the same day came this letter to me:—­

    “Pemigewasset House, Plymouth, N.H., Thursday morning, 5 o’clock

“My Dear Sir,—­The telegraph has communicated to you the fact of our dear friend Hawthorne’s death.  My friend Colonel Hibbard, who bears this note, was a friend of H——­, and will tell you more than I am able to write.

    “I enclose herewith a note which I commenced last evening to dear
    Mrs. Hawthorne.  O, how will she bear this shock!  Dear mother—­dear
    children—­