Passing through the great hall, ornamented with pictures of English hunting scenes, we ascended the oaken stair-case, with its carved and antique balustrade;—we stood at the door—we pressed the handle—the room and the bed where he died were before us. Nothing in the lofty drama of his existence, surpassed the grandeur of that final scene;—the cold which he had taken from exposure, in overseeing some part of his grounds, and which resisted the earlier domestic remedies that were applied, advanced in the course of two short days into that frightful form of the disease of the throat, laryngitis.—It became necessary for him to take to his bed. His valued friend, Dr. Craik, was instantly summoned, and assisted by the best medical skill of the surrounding country, exhausted all the means of his art, but without affording him relief. He patiently submitted, though in great distress, to the various remedies proposed, but it became evident from the deep gloom settling upon the countenances of the medical gentlemen, that the case was hopeless;—advancing insidiously, the disease had fastened itself with deadly certainty. Looking with perfect calmness upon the sobbing group around him, he said—“Grieve not my friends; it is as I anticipated from the first;—the debt which we all owe, is now about to be paid—I am resigned to the event.” Requesting Mrs. Washington to bring him two wills from his escritoire, he directed one to be burnt, and placed the other in her hands, as his last testament, and then gave some final instructions to Mr. Lear, his secretary and relation, as to the adjustment his business affairs. He soon after became greatly distressed, and as, in the paroxysms which became more frequent and violent, Mr. Lear, who was extended on the bed by his side, assisted him to turn, he, with kindness, but with difficulty, articulated, “I fear I give you great trouble, sir,—but—perhaps it is a duty that we all owe one to another—I trust that you may receive the same attention, when you shall require it.” As the night waned, the fatal symptoms became more imminent—his breath more laboured and suffocating, and his voice soon after failed him. Perceiving his end approaching, he straightened himself to his full length, he folded his own hands in the necessary attitude upon his chest—placing his finger upon the pulse of the left wrist, and thus calmly prepared, and watching his own dissolution, he awaited the summons of his Maker. The last faint hopes of his friends had disappeared;—Mrs. Washington, stupified with grief, sat at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed steadfastly upon him; Dr. Craik, in deep gloom, stood with his face buried in his hands at the fire,—his faithful black servant, Christopher, the tears uncontrolled trickling down his face, on one side, took the last look of his dying master; while Mr. Lear, in speechless grief, with folded hands, bent over his pillow on the other.