"Yes," he said, "I was particularly fortunate in being born the same year with four of the most distinguished men of the age, and I really feel flattered that it so happened. Now, in England, there were Tennyson, Darwin, and Gladstone--Gladstone being, I think, four months younger than myself. That is a most remarkable trio, isn't it? Just contemplate the greatness of those three men, and then remember that in the same year Abraham Lincoln was born in this country. Most remarkable!" And when the visitor added, "You have forgotten to mention the fifth, doctor; there was also Oliver Wendell Holmes," Doctor Holmes quickly retorted in his own inimitable way: "Oh! that does not count; I 'sneaked in,' as it were!" Doctor Holmes remained at his country home in Beverly until late in September, this last year of his life, and his health seemed steadily to improve with the bracing autumn weather. On his return to the city, however, he had a severe attack of the asthmatic trouble from which he had suffered all his life. A severe cold, and the "weight of years" aggravated what seemed at first but a slight indisposition; and the poet, with his accurate medical knowledge, realized that the end was not far distant. But as he grew weaker and weaker, his sunshiny spirit shone all the brighter. With playful jests he tried to soothe the sad hearts of his dear ones, and to make them feel that the pain of parting was the only sting of death. He seldom, indeed, made any reference to the dark shadow he felt so near; but one morning, three or four days before his death, he said to his son: "Well, Wendell, what is it? King's Chapel?" "Oh, yes, father," said Judge Holmes. "Then I am satisfied. That is all I am going to say about it." On Sunday morning, October 7th, he seemed so much easier that his physician and intimate friend, Doctor Charles P. Putnam, went out of town to make a professional visit, leaving his brother, Doctor James Putnam, in charge. About noon Doctor Holmes had a sudden spasm, and his breathing became so labored that he asked to be moved into his favorite armchair. "That is better, thank you. That rests me more," he said to his son, who stood beside him. These were his last words. Painlessly and peacefully, with all the dear ones of his home around him, his life flowed away like the ebbing of a tide. To the world outside, the tidings of Doctor Holmes' death, that bright October day, came with a terrible shock. As late as Thursday of the preceding week he had been down town, and was intending to be present at the meeting of the Saturday Morning Club. Not even his nearest friends realized that the end was so near. "It is as if a long accustomed element had gone out of the air!" exclaimed one Boston citizen. "While Doctor Holmes lived we felt as if we were still bound by a living tie to the Titanic age of American literature."